


Sous ma peau, dans tes mains

by FolleDeJoie



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pilgrimage, Pre-Canon, Prequel, Resolved Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, There will be violence, UST, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but i am only one person i'm sorry, i will try and update tags for each chapter my guys, so heads up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2020-12-24 10:15:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21097805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FolleDeJoie/pseuds/FolleDeJoie
Summary: "-   The boat kept bumping lightly on the rocks of the shore, the waves unsure whether they wanted to take it back with them or not. The sound of wood bouncing on the surfs and lightly creaking from how swollen it was from the water seemed so foreign to him. He had seen boats in the distance, of course, and whenever one of the monks would need to go across the sea they would always see them off, but it had been years since such a thing had happened.When he was only a few feet away the sound of a haggard and broken cough stopped him dead in his tracks. Without thinking he rushed the few steps between them, falling to his knees in the shallows as he peered over the side in wonder. His eyebrows shot up as he took in the sight before him."An exile falls asleep under the stars, mouth dry and heart heavy enough to drag him under the waves. A mute awakens on the shore, hope and redemption hidden behind kind eyes. This is the story of one man's journey as he seeks to carve out a space for himself in a world that may never be his.  - A(n unbeta'd) Pilgrimage Prequel.





	1. Chapter 1

The winds ruffled the novice’s mess of brown curls, obscuring his vision every so often. Not that there was much to be seen at that time of day. Night-time was sweeping away the orange hues of daylight leaving him squinting across the shoreline and out onto the endless sea. Even though a chill had crept into his bones, penetrating the thick and practical dark woollen robes that he wore, he had no intention of moving from his spot.

This moment of solace was the gift awarded to him from a hard day’s labour, a small reprieve from the long moments spent listening to the other monks’ speaking of rumours and stories that had already been told a thousand times as they worked the land or read the scriptures. The Brothers were the only family that he had known and he cared for them all, but their ways were as tough as they were kind. He needed this time to himself to reflect without the interference of their preaching and prejudices.

The evenings were his to do as he pleased before returning to the chapel for rest, and what pleased him never seemed to change: a moment of solitude away from the hymns and sermons, a hiding place from the suspicious and piteous glances that were never fully hidden and often thrown his way. He was aware of the unfortunate circumstances of his coming to live amongst the Brothers, so he could not fault the few whom he had never fully bonded with. It still left him with an ache in the pit of his stomach that, despite each passing year, never seemed to lessen.

To be alone on the coastline with his naked fingers and toes digging rhythmically into the coarse sand beneath him, breathing in the salty taste of the air around him and taking in the squawks of the fulmars milling around the rocks, this was perhaps as close to God that he had managed to get. _There are more miracles happening inside the eyes of a crab, than can be found on the tip of a quill_, Brother Ciaran had once spoken softly to him when he was a child, unable to calm his mind from the night terrors that plagued him. He didn’t know if the communion with nature and the landscape around him was against the beliefs ordained to them from Rome, but the words had carved a nest in his heart and soul. He knew the feeling of tiny pebbles crunching beneath his nails and the crashing of the heavy tide on the unmovable shore would always be the place that he felt the holiest.

He closed his eyes and soaked up the last of the warmth of the day, focusing on the sounds of the waves lapping at the stones from where he sat furthest away from the shore. It wouldn’t do to get his robes wet this close to resting- the last time he had ran home to the chapel with sand and salt-water dragging down on the heavy wool, he had been forced to sleep with nothing but a worn blanket in the cold and solemn corner of the room. The Abba’s punishment had been a painful lesson, and sure enough he had learnt it through the illness that had hung over him for days afterwards.

He was startled from his reminiscence as he heard a heavy clunking that was not the water hitting the shore. He jerked his eyes open and sat bolt upright, gazing across the shoreline to see what could possibly have jolted him so when- there, at the corner of the beach next to the rocky alcoves there was…something, he couldn’t quite make it out with the last rays of the sunset blinding him, but…

He was on his feet in a shot, scooping up his knapsack hurriedly and squinting in the direction of the object, holding his hand over his forehead to try and get a good look. He took a step back and his eyes widened in disbelief when he realised that it was a boat. There was an ingrained split-second of fear at the thought that foreigners had come to pillage them once more, but he shook those thoughts away. The boat was far too small to be housing a group of angry marauders. He knew that he should go and retrieve one of the Brothers, at the very least let them know that something peculiar had happened, but the inquisitive side of him that the church had tried to dispel reared its ugly head once again. What if there was something of note in there? Could it be a sign of the Almighty? His body had already made to turn back towards the chapel but he stalled at the last second, curiosity burning bright inside his chest.

He would only take a small look before heading back to the others, he kept thinking to himself as he made the long journey towards the small, sail-less boat. A small peek at what was there couldn’t hurt.

The boat kept bumping lightly on the rocks of the shore, the waves unsure whether they wanted to take it back with them or not. The sound of wood bouncing on the surfs and lightly creaking from how swollen it was seemed so foreign to him. He had seen boats in the distance, of course, and whenever one of the monks would need to go across the sea they would always see them off, but it had been years since such a thing had happened.

When only a few feet remained, the sound of a haggard and broken cough stopped him dead in his tracks. Without thinking he rushed the final steps between them, falling to his knees in the cold shallows as he peered over the side in wonder. His eyebrows shot up as he took in the sight before him.

It was a man. He couldn’t make out much in the disappearing light but the only way he could describe him was…strong. He had skin darker than his own, a strong jawline, close-cropped hair that seemed to have been jaggedly severed, and even though he seemed to not have eaten for some time Diarmuid could tell that there was power underneath his ragged garments. The man’s eyes were fluttering and his lips were painfully chapped. Upon closer inspection, the youth couldn’t see any gourds or skins in the small boat. The man was breathing shallowly, an unhealthy rasping coming from his chest as he seemed to be in a restless sleep.

“An gcloiseann tú mé?” He asked gently, reaching out with a slightly trembling hand to touch his chest, shaking him gently. That seemed to rouse him slightly, but he still didn’t answer. The only indication that he had heard him at all was the furrow on his brow.

The young man reached for his own skin of water in his bag, cupping one of his hands beneath the older man’s overheated neck and angling him to better receive the liquid.

“Le do thoil, ní mór duit deoch…” He spoke firmer this time, giving him another gentle shake to illicit a response. He finally managed to open his eyes only slightly, a slither of brown beneath his long lashes. He still didn’t seem quite aware of what was happening, but his face smoothed out into wonderment as he caught sight of the monk.

“Please, you must drink...Do you understand?” He tried again in the common tongue, gently nudging the head of the water skin over his lips so that a few drops spilled down his chin. This seemed to break the spell as the man licked his lips and opened his mouth just enough to receive the must-needed moisture. He reached up weakly to grip onto the hand that was holding the bag, as if he thought that he would take it back suddenly, as if he didn’t believe that it could be real.

When he finished the few sips he gasped heavily, letting his head drop back but keeping his tight clutch on the young man’s wrist. The sun had finally set, the warmth of the day already dissipating as night rolled in, but the man looked at him as if he had seen the stars for the first time in his life, as if he were witness to something miraculous and overwhelming.

“What is your name?” Diarmuid whispered, brushing the greasy locks from his face as gently as he could, mindful of swollen and blistering skin. The mans lips parted as if to reply but only his rasping breath escaped into the space between them.

He fell back into an exhausted slumber not long after, and as Diarmuid pushed down the panic in his chest and instead started to plan on how to get the heavy man up to the chapel in one piece, he didn’t notice how his fingertips had been rubbing comforting circles into the man’s sunburnt nape.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His surroundings are achingly familiar in a way that boils in his gut, that cuts his breath short and has his heart hammering in his chest. He's back there once more, in the caverns and derelict underground of the church, and any breath he can take is mired by mould and rot and singed flesh.
> 
> or, the mute awakens.
> 
> (edited this chapter so I'm sorry if it disappeared briefly!)

The first thing he was aware of was steadiness.

During the endless time spent on that small boat, the maddening swaying of the sea had become second nature to him. He’d mourned the knowledge that he would never again know the stillness of the land beneath his feet. Upon realising that the rocking of the waves was no longer present, his body seemed to ache as his heart cried out in joy.

His awareness of his surroundings seemed to finally pick up speed. His skin felt itchy and sunburnt beneath the damp cloths weighing him down, his eyes were heavy and gritty, and his throat felt like a thousand swords had been drawn from up from his chest. Swallowing only enhanced the pain, making him aware of how parched he really was.

There was a vague image of a young man at the forefront of his thoughts, soft curls in the sunshine and an even softer voice, though trying to grasp the image was like trying to hang on to the remnants of a dream. It grew hazier every second that slipped by and if he had the strength he would be crying out in frustration.

He felt a cot underneath him, his fingers twitching and his nails catching on what felt like wool. The air around him was cool, a dampness lingering in the air which felt like a blessing on his overheated body. He couldn’t sense that anyone was in the room with him, but he’d been wrong before. He struggled to open his eyes, overwhelmed at how weak his body was to disobey such a mundane order, when he heard a faint echo of footsteps against stone that grew louder.

He could feel his heart begin to pound as it finally dawned on him that he wasn’t dead. He was alive and he could be anywhere. He could be back _there_, it could be some sort of trap, what were they going to do to him, did they know who he was, had they seen his _mark_\- The sound of a heavy door creaking open and clicking closed reverberated through the chamber as footsteps came to a halt by his side.

He tried to calm his breathing because he’d been through this before: if they saw he was awake the real agony would begin, and he was so tired, he couldn’t go through it again, not when he was still so _weak_-

A hand came to rest lightly on his chest and he couldn’t stop himself from flinching. His eyes were still squeezed firmly shut and he could feel himself trembling from the adrenaline that coursed through him, his flight or fight instincts desperately at war with one another.

“Calm yourself, Stranger. No harm will come to you here.” It was not his gentle saviour from the surf, but instead a man’s deep voice bouncing off the stone walls around them. There was the lilt of a foreign accent peeking through, but most certainly speaking in the common tongue. He couldn’t tell if it was a blessing. If he was among people who shared his language, then who knew where he was, if he had already been discovered only to be given back to the hell that he had been living in.

“Your wounds have been healing nicely and the fever seems to have passed,” the man removed his hand briefly, laying it palm-up on his forehead before it was smoothly replaced with a mercifully cold and damp washcloth. He couldn’t contain the small moan of relief that escaped his aching and chapped lips.

He tried to open his eyes once more, concerned by how much strength it took out of him to simply keep them slit, and finally managed a glance at his prison. It was daytime, the natural light muted through the small stone windows in the room. The ceiling wasn’t particularly as high as other churches that he had stepped in, but the crosses nailed above the windows and door were a dead giveaway.

His observation shifted towards the man. He wasn’t as old as he’d imagined, with a thick beard that was only dappled with the white of age. He had a rigidity to his features that opposed the kindness in his eyes, and the brown robes and peculiar hairstyle were a surprise: he hadn’t seen this style in years, and he knew it only to be foreign, perhaps northern. How far had he truly drifted on the tides?

“Do you have a name, stranger?” he asked, leaning down to catch his gaze.

He did. Many that he could no longer stand, names that only bore violence and destruction in their wake. Names that he had left buried in blood-soaked sands and the dark memories of his enemies.

With what little energy he had, he shook his head.

The older man nodded, and they fell into quiet contemplation. He knew what this looked like: a foreigner, torn and bleeding and bruised, inexplicably washing up for them to find. It wouldn’t take the sharpest mind to decide that he was a threat, and he knew first-hand how the church dealt with those.

“Well, in that case,” the older man’s words snapped the silence and broke his darkening thoughts. He realised that he’d allowed his heavy eyes to close, and the effort in opening them once more was almost too painful to bear. “You may call me Brother Ciaran. Do you know where you are?”

Again, an almost imperceptible shake of his head as he tried to keep himself from succumbing to sleep.

“It’s not often people turn up here without a purpose. You’re in Kilmannan, on Eire. Do you know where that is?” the older man asked.

He couldn’t place it on a map, but he knew of the rumours and tales of the ongoing conquest of the island itself: the natives who still worshipped the land and the old gods, the ongoing battles with the Lords on the mainland. The thought of seeing another of his kind unsettled him, and he shook his head.

The older man sighed and removed the cloth from his forehead, rinsing it out in the basin next to him before replacing it. He patted his arm gently so as not to jostle any of his bandages and started to gather his things.

“There is much to discuss, though we’ll wait until you have recovered. The others here will look after you when I cannot, do not be alarmed by them,” there was a small smile on the monks’ face, there and gone again in a second. “No harm will come to you from us, I swear it.”

With this he stood, brushing off his robes and leaving him alone in the cold room once more. There was the sound of gulls cawing in the distance somewhere above him, a dull roar of the waves washing onto the shore. As he was lulled once more into the darkness, his mind once again wandered to the young face that plagued him, brown curls glowing in the sunshine. His last thoughts were of salvation as he finally let himself rest.

* * *

He is dragged from sleep by his own scratchy coughs, his throat crying out for water. Before he could cough himself into a grave, he felt a hand slip under his head and angle him towards the cup that’s presented at his lips. He took a few long gulps before the cup was taken away, and he found no shame in the way he whined frustratedly. The owner of the cup let out a laugh and placed it again to his healing lips long enough for him to take a few more satisfying sips, before it disappeared once more. A cloth gently wiped away the drops he had spilled in his thirsty haste.

He felt more rested than the few previous times he’d briefly been awoken to someone tending to his needs and checking on his sores. Now that he wasn’t so focussed on staying awake, he could feel the thrum of discomfort through each of his wounds. The wrappings on what felt like every limb restrained his movements, and the sharp tang of herbs lingering over him indicated that he’d finally started healing. He was propped up on his side and not on his back where most of the damage was, a small reprieve from pain that he was grateful of.

“Brother Ciaran said not to give you too much in case you drown,” The voice that sat next to him was young, younger than the other monks and so agonisingly familiar. Again, the undercurrent of an accent that was shared by the other monks that had seen to him lingered on his tongue, and he couldn’t help the way his tensed shoulders relaxed slightly at the sound.

He managed to squint his eyes open, expecting the sharp touch of daylight but was surprised to find that the chamber was instead dimly illuminated by the light of a small torch. He thought he’d been holed up in the chamber for at least a few days, but the disorienting passage of time was lost to him with how intermittently he awoke.

He tilted his head slowly as to not dislodge any of the bandages and cloths, and finally locked on to the man sat by him. To call him a man would be a falsehood, as the familiar boy looked barely sixteen summers, with as much of a healthy glow as the North and the firelight could provide him. His large brown robes dwarfed him, his shoulders hunched up nervously. His hair was short and curled, as dark as aged wood, and from what he could tell from low light his wide eyes were the same. Unlike the older monks who always had tight control of their emotions and movements, the boy let out a barely contained smile as their gazes finally. His eyes softened and he seemed to hesitate for a moment before noisily scraping his chair along the stone floor to inch closer to his bedside. The grating sound had him wincing, but the eager boy seemed to take no mind.

“My name’s Diarmuid,” he stated brightly and with the enthusiasm youth and someone who rarely had a chance to make a new impression. He began to lift the bandages on the older man’s arm and made an encouraging sound in the back of his throat at what he saw. “I found you! In the boat, by the sea…I was the one who found you, do you remember?”

He managed a grunt from deep in his chest that the boy took as a yes, his smile growing to show a perfect set of teeth before he turned his attention back to the myriad of bandages. They stayed silent as the boy continued his work, dropping the sodden cloths in a bucket by his feet and replacing them. The cool air between each change felt like a dream on his over-heated skin, and he tried not to wince as the healing paste seeped into his sores.

He drifted off into a comfortable haze, the repetitive motions soothing him into a half-sleep. It was only when these motions stopped that he opened his eyes once again, seeing the boy staring nervously over his shoulder. He gripped a roll of linen so tightly that his knuckles had turned white, his face taking on a red glow visible even in the torchlight.

Diarmuid looked apologetic but took care in not meeting his eyes. He finally pushed himself to stand, his feet leading him around to face the prone man’s back and the mute tensed once more, his own fingers gripping tightly to the wool beneath him.

“This might…sting a bit, but I’ll try to be gentle.” The boy said softly, and he waited for the man to nod before slowly lowering the sheet to gather at his waist.

He shivered at the sudden drop in temperature and at the sound of the boy’s breath catching in his throat. The moment dragged on and he could only imagine what he was seeing, the ragged and torn remains of his strength on show. The marks of his betrayal and unworthiness.

He could feel his own breathing start to hasten, and the boy only shushed him and got to work on replacing the bandages as quickly as he could. The poultices burned more harshly on the deeper wounds, and the boy laid a comforting hand on his shoulder as the herbs seeped into his stinging flesh.

When he’d finished, he pulled the heavy sheet back up towards his chin and leaned over to tuck in the sides. The boys’ cheek was close to his own, plump and full of life in a way that spoke of little hardship. He brought with him the odours of the animals and the wash of the sea, and the wounded man allowed himself a small moment of comfort. He revelled in the hands tucking the blanket under his arms deftly and carefully, but to his horror he could feel the burn of tears so fiercely that he clenched them tightly shut.

It was too much. He was supposed to rot inside that damned boat and the birds were supposed to peck at his sun-scorched bones until he was forgotten to time. It was what he deserved, to be set adrift and unmourned, scourged from his lands until not even the dust could remember his name.

Instead here he lay, his broken body healing beneath warm fingers and kind words and _it was too much._

The boy spoke above him but he couldn’t hear the words through the pounding in his ears and the trembling of his body as it seized and contracted. He couldn’t breathe as his mind and lungs splintered.

There were hands at his shoulders trying to keep him pinned but even through his weakness his sheer mass wouldn’t allow itself to be settled. He could hear the boy shout out in distress in words he didn’t understand, before the hands disappeared altogether, and he couldn’t help the small whimper that escaped him at the loss.

Soft, long fingers cupped his cheeks, and he pried his eyes open long enough to see those brown eyes wide in terror and concern.

“You have to tell me what I did!” the boy whispered harshly. “Where does it hurt? Tell me!” He repeated the question as other hands clasped onto his arms, his legs, his chest. The boy was shoved away, and his restrained arms jerked instinctively to try and get him back in view, but to no avail. A damp cloth was draped over his forehead and covered his eyes, and it was then that the tears began to spill.

He didn’t know what was happening. He didn’t deserve this shelter and kindness from these strangers, to be fed and healed after all the damage and sins that he had yet to repent for…

Not for the first time since he’d been off that wretched boat did he feel his body slipping into the abyss. It was the first time he’d fallen asleep with a pair of concerned brown eyes watching him from the corner of the room, and he doesn’t know whether it’s a blessing or a curse.

* * *

Over the days that followed his outburst, he drifted in and out of reality. Sometimes alone in the cold and musky chamber, sometimes with the presence of Brother Ciaran at his side. He didn’t see the boy again, but every time he convinced himself that the kindness and light touches that he had felt were just an illusion, he heard his youthful laughter echoing from beyond the solid walls around him.

He would catch the lingering scent of the ocean spray in the room before he awoke, the way that his covers were tucked under his body like a mother would do for a child. It chipped at something deep inside his chest, something that he’d long since buried beneath the blood and sand of the East.

He didn’t expect to live past his days on the boat that he had been moored in, and it’s a couple of weeks later that this realisation hit him fully. He managed to sit up properly for the first time on his own, unaided and with only the lingering whisper of pain from his still-healing wounds. The dark man looked outside the small window of the room and caught his first hints of far-off hills, green and sandy plains blurring in the countryside.

Brother Ciaran stepped forward to pass him a mug of water, before milling about and picking up rags that had fallen clumsily on the floor. He knew that the monk was doing it for his benefit, pretended to keep himself busy but staying close to help him at the first sign of pain. He felt equal parts warmth and shame at his situation, but he was grateful to the foreign man that seemed to understand his need for silence. He had brought it up only once, a night that stretched on when sleep wouldn’t come for either of them.

“There are brothers who vow silence upon themselves” The monk had said, sat across from him while he stitched a ripped tunic, most likely the boys. He had nodded to show that he had heard, shifting on his cot to find a spot that brought him the least amount of discomfort.

“They believe that speech is sinful to the soul, that men’s lies corrupt the truth in our hearts. They believe this brings them closer to God.”

He had looked away at this, had gazed upon the cracked ridges of the beams in the ceiling, the way that the red glow of the fireplace had flickered across the stone walls.

“Do you wish to be closer to God?” The monk had asked.

_No,_ he had wanted to cry, _no I don’t, I’m closer to the pit. What would God think if he saw me? How would he smite away my sins if he peered too close? No,_ he had thought_, I don’t belong with God anymore._

He had trembled -and he had _hated_ this new cursed body he inhabited, where the control he used to covet had deserted him- and had shook his head. The monk had nodded once, then continued with his stitching as if he had never asked.

Brother Ciaran now halted in his tidying and looked over to where the mute was gazing at the outside world.

“Would you like to be outside?” He asked. He waited for the mute to nod before reaching for the supporting sticks he had fashioned for that very purpose.

“You will be weak” he said as they moved his legs over one side of the bed, lacing up his leather boots, “but I think this will do you some good. Don’t strain yourself, let me know when you tire and we’ll come back.”

His first steps were shaky, and he relied on the monk’s steady hands and firm grip around his shoulders so as not to fall. He’d gained some strength and some weight with the help of the Brothers’, but his inactivity left him feeling light-headed for the first few moments. When he finally made it through the doors and towards the entrance of the monastery, he caught a glimpse at how small the building was. They passed through the sanctuary in a few shaky movements and suddenly he was outside.

He squinted and turned his face away from the sun, blinded momentarily even though it was overcast. When he blinked away the sunspots, he looked upon his haven for the first time. There were a few monks puttering about, sifting through seaweed and breaking crab shells in search of their meat. There was a small stable with one cow, swaying restlessly as another monk milked it.

He’d known that they were a simple folk, but it dawned on him suddenly how defenceless they were. They were carrying on blindly, unaware of the dangers of the outside world and he feared for them deep in his chest. He looked around at these middle-aged men, with their strange haircuts and distrustful glances, and felt something unpleasant coil in the pit of his stomach.

“It’s been many years since we’ve had a stranger in our midst” Brother Ciaran reflected next to him, an ever-calming presence at his side. “Even longer since they’ve been a foreigner.”

He felt uncomfortable at that word being directed towards him. In his life he’d been a stranger, yes, and after that a conqueror, then a heretic, but foreigner had always been for the others. He knew then that’s what he would forever be to them: a wounded stranger in a strange land.

“Ciaran!”

The young voice shouted from the hill next to them. They both turned and spotted the boy running towards them as smoothly as he could while holding what was likely a very heavy bucket. He was smiling, glancing down at his feet every time he stumbled.

His robes were muddied, his short curls ruffled from the winds, and his face was red from his exertion and glee. Diarmuid stood before them, haphazardly dropping the bucket to his feet, his shoulders rising and falling with every laboured breath he took. He couldn’t stop looking at the older men before him, letting his gaze flicker between the few remaining bandages around the mute’s arms and the older monk by his side.

“Ciaran, you never said he was healed! How is he feeling? How long has he been-“

“_Diarmuid_” Ciaran halted his barrage of questions sternly, but there was a hint of familial mirth to his tone, “he can’t be up for too long, but the fresh air will help. Have you finished your chores?”

Diarmuid looked sheepish as his eyes darted from the mute and back to Ciaran again.

“Not- well, not _exactly_, but the weather is soon to turn- I can feel it Brother! The winds are picking up and you always told me that I shouldn’t be by the sea when…”

“The last time you were by the sea on a day like this, you picked up a stray.” Ciaran interjects, and the blush that dusted the boys’ cheeks deepened and spread to the tips of his ears. He turned his focus on the mute and smiled at him. It was something soft, and kind, and the mute tried not to shirk away from it.

“I’m glad to see you’re getting better…” Diarmuid says, reaching out his hand to touch him but drawing it back just as quickly, his body emanating restless energy. He couldn’t help but feel his own lips quirking slightly, the ghost of a smile at the boy’s excitement.

He nodded to him and Diarmuid let out a surprised bark of laughter before looking around nervously as if he’d done something wrong. His brow furrowed at the younger man’s actions before his arms started to shake where they were holding him up on the sticks. Brother Ciaran noticed and wrapped a strong arm around him, preparing them for the journey back to his small chambers.

“Diarmuid, when you’re finished, you’ll join me in the sanctuary.” Ciaran ordered.

“But Brother Ciaran, I…”

“Hush, Diarmuid.” Ciaran cut off the boy’s complaining quickly. “Go finish your chores and we’ll speak on it later.”

He watched Diarmuid huff petulantly, but he did as he was told and walked over to the stables, glancing back at them every so often. He heard Ciaran let out a small chuckle as he turned them back towards the stone building.

“He’s a good boy,” the older monk grunted as he manoeuvred the bigger man back onto the bed as carefully as he could, shifting his legs back beneath the heavy blankets. “He’s becoming a man before my eyes, yet he still has much to learn about the world.”

_Let him be ignorant of the world and its pain_, he thought to himself, _let him only know this small plot of land for the rest of his days. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's slightly longer, hope you're enjoying it and let me know what you think! Will try and update in the next few days x


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time is a healer, until it really isn't.

He awoke one night to find an older man sat next to him, older than the others he had seen but sporting the same simple brown garbs. His hair was white, his face lined with his years. He was watching him silently from his seat next to his bed, and in the last vestiges of sleep he could almost mistake him for a spirit.

He shifted slowly in the bed until his back was propped up against the wall. The old man continued watching him. When he was seated as comfortably as he could get, he watched him right back.

The monk considered him a moment longer before he sighed, leaning back into his chair.

“You’ve been with us two months now.” The older man rasped out.

This did surprise him, though he didn’t show it. He’d known that he’d been asleep more than he’d been awake when he was first rescued, but he hadn’t realised that it had been that long already. He nodded.

“I am the Abba of this convent. I wanted to speak with you when you were healed, but I hear from Brother Ciaran that that may be a problem.” He said, a strange smile curving on his lips.

He nodded again, shifting his gaze to a corner of the room.

“In that case allow me to speak for both of us,” he continued, as if he were unaware of the tension building inside the other man. “I’m glad to see that you’re almost recovered. A few more days and you should be able to walk unaided, I’m told.”

It was true: since that first outing, he had made sure to walk around as much as he could aided by one of the sticks Brother Ciaran had made for him. He had even tentatively started his training routine again. He was still weaker than he had been before…before, but he could already feel the thrum of energy and power returning to him.

“I want you to know that there is a place here for you, if you want it. We need a strong pair of hands like yours on the land. Consider it penance, if you prefer.”

The mute looked back to him sharply, a small bud of hope unfurling behind his lungs before he noticed the Abba’s small smile had disappeared.

“Before we make arrangements, I must first ask you…” The old man started grimly, and the mute prepared himself for rejection and the end of all good things.

“Have you killed in the name of God?”

He blinked. He nodded.

“Is that why Diarmuid found you like he did?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. The Abba contemplated this, his hands clasped together on his lap.

“Do you think you deserve the salvation we have given you?”

His brow creased in sorrow as he stared at the old man. He shook his head again.

The Abba considered his answers for a moment and leaned forward in his seat, reaching over to place one wizened hand on the mute’s scarred and calloused knuckles. He focused on not flinching away from this stranger, but he still felt his shoulders tense up at the contact. For many years, the touch of strangers had only ever brought him pain, and the habit was hard to shake.

“Stay with us as a lay-brother” the Abba stated firmly. “Over time you will find your absolution. I swear it to you.”

He had heard stories of such a thing happening before but had scoffed at the idea of a man taking on the work without the vows, without the gain. A man belonging to the church without his own bearings used to be considered little more than a slave by the men that he was surrounded by. But those men were long gone, and things had changed.

He nodded, and the holy man patted his hand.

“When you are fully rested I’ll have the novice show you your duties. Welcome home, brother.” With that the man stood and left the room, leaving him once more to his own thoughts.

Here was a second chance to finally be the man that he needed to be, even if he didn’t want it. He had found a purpose, something that he had been lacking for far too long. With the prospect of time and forgiveness, his clouded his mind had started to clear.

* * *

Soon after the late-night meeting, he was restless and eager to get to work. The possibility of having something to do had pushed him further in his recovery and he had finally regained enough of his strength to be useful once more.

An unexpected but well-received pleasure had come in the shape of Diarmuid’s evening visits. The boy had joined him nearly every evening after his meeting with the Abba, and he would excitedly explain the wildlife and the landscape that surrounded them.

He would show him books written in the common tongue, and even tentatively showed him a couple in the land’s native tongue. They were ratty and dog-eared, abused over time and use but the way he held them close and gingerly turned the damaged pages spoke of his devotion to them. When he gestured that he couldn’t read either of them – he’d never been given the chance to learn, only shown skills that required a less academic area- Diarmuid had seemed crestfallen for barely a second before announcing that he would teach him their ways and their language.

On the day that he was deemed fit enough to work by Brother Ciaran, he joined Diarmuid in the small clearing outside of the stone building that no longer imprisoned him. He basked in the feeling of the breeze on his skin, as cool as it was compared to his homeland. The unmuted sounds of the gulls cawing at him from the sky. The warmth of the sun that radiated through him despite the slight chill to the air.

Summer was reaching its end, and he marvelled at the fact that he had lived through those months.

The novice showed him the animals, running his hands lovingly through the sheep’s wool that had once again began to grow from its ritual shearing. He explained how he’d been tasked with rearing a few of them, pride lacing his tongue at how healthy and fat they were becoming. The mute noticed that he would sometimes switch to his native tongue, gesturing at tools and repeating the words slowly as if he were teaching a child to speak. The man he was before might not have stood for this apparent insult. For his part, the man he was now allowed the young man’s ramblings, nodded when he needed to.

The sun set. The sun rose.

* * *

The months leading up to Winter passed in a flurry of preparing the land for the following year, with his daily lessons with the novice being a welcome diversion. He began to understand the basics of the language, repeating the words in his mind, lingering on the image Diarmuid’s reassuring nods and mimicking the way his lips formed the sounds in the dead of night.

With every swing of his axe, every bit of soil tilled, he felt his prior strength returning in full force. The ache of his shoulders lessened every day that he carried the baskets laden with seaweed and clams from the beach.

He had caught a glimpse of himself in the still water of the washbasin one evening and felt as though he were seeing a stranger: his once roughly shorn hair was creeping past his ears and curling wildly around his face, a thick beard covering cheeks that were once sunken but had regained a healthy weight to them.

He ignored the ache in his back from where his scars pulled and chafed against his clothing, resigning himself to the knowledge that his flesh would bear the mark of his sins. But if he were to suffer, he often thought to himself, then he would rather it be in this small patch of salvation.

It was always when he came to terms with this new shell he inhabited, however, that a remnant of his past would rear its ugly head.

He had been tilling the small patch of land dedicated to the monk’s winter vegetables, when their only mare had been spooked by something running through the stables. The animal had let out a mighty whinny and lost control of itself and its surroundings. It slammed its hooves on the hard ground, breaking through one of the weak wooden beams of the glorified hut. The monks in the area dropped their daily rituals and ran to calm its ruckus, shouting for the mute to help them before she was injured.

He couldn’t hear them.

The thundering sounds of hooves galloping over the sands blasted through his head like a catapult breaching a fortress. He was assaulted with the stench of rot, death and decay, the cloying iron taste of blood in the air, and his stomach churned violently. The calls of the monks were the echoes of men crying and shouting in the distance and the air around him grew thin, leaving him gasping. He was stood still in that small patch of land, trembling with each wave of terror and exhilaration.

He was barely aware that he had emptied the contents of his stomach, curled over himself as the monks calmed the horse down from its raw panic. When his insides had finished cramping he had stumbled away, leaning his hands on his quivering knees and taking deep breaths to disperse the red haze that had overtaken his senses.

He could still feel the tackiness of blood coating his hands, his face, the taste heavy on his tongue along with the bile; he could smell the death throes of his comrades and enemies that had been slain, that _he_ had slain, and for a wild moment he fumbled for the sword that no longer hung at his hip.

He looked up and dazedly noted that one of the monks was walking towards him, hands outstretched and tentatively asking him what was ailing him but he shook his head furiously. He only heard the cries of men, women, and children. Dying animals and screams of the damned.

He held up one of his hands and the monk stopped dead in his tracks as the mute took deep uneven breaths. His heart was pounding, pulse ricocheting around his skull and he could feel the itch of cold sweat at the nape of his neck. Without a second thought he stumbled away towards the winding path that lead to the beach, ignoring the questions and calls behind him.

He was unaware of the time passing around him, focused solely on the fact that he needed to get away, breaking into a run that pulled at his old scars and tore at his lungs. His heart was pounding as he eventually staggered onto the sand, and he sank to the ground when his knees finally gave out from exhaustion. He looked out onto the waves lining the shore, the cliffs in the distance surrounded by the flocks of gulls.

He was in Eire. He was in the North. He wasn’t surrounded by flames or gore or the nearby presence of an enemy. He wasn’t watching his friends slaughter the foreigners for dominion on their holy lands. He wasn’t holding a bloodied sword as he stood over a cowering boy, gripping his dripping gashes as the sunlight reflected in his wide frightened eyes. There were no armoured horses trampling the dead and the wounded. There were no horses. He was in Eire.

An hour passed. Two. He made his way back to the chapel when his hands no longer shook, and the tears had dried on his cheeks. He could ignore the stares of the monks as he kept his distance from the horse. He couldn’t ignore the deeply buried taste of nostalgia that simmered in his gut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small correction on the line: 'Summer was reaching its end, and he marvelled at the fact that he had lived through those months.'
> 
> It now makes more sense time-wise, sorry about that!


	4. Diarmuid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he gets older the dream gets hazier. The lines started to blur a little too harshly, but he still wakes up feeling a sense of calm than no prayer has so far given him.
> 
> The terrors come just as frequently.

_Diarmuid dreams. _

_Not every night. There are some nights where he’ll blink and suddenly it’s time to rise and tend to the animals. Other nights he lies awake and tries not to stare too hard into the thick darkness of the small dorm as the other monks’ shuffle and snore in slumber. _

_But on the nights where he does dream, it is almost always the same: he is small as he looks up at the people and the trees and the huts that tower over him. There is laughter coming lingering on the wind, but the cadence and the origin changes every time. There’s a soft hand in his and a blurred figure walking alongside him as they wander down a riverbank that’s running backwards. He gets the sense that it’s a woman with him although it devolves into a mesh of muted colours if he tries to focus, everything blending and blurring together around him. _

_The figure speaks to him in his own tongue, the speech flowing easier than any latin he has known. He can’t make out what it’s saying to him for certain, but its soft lilt bares no ill will. There are wild-flowers of colours he's never seen replicated outside of his dreams sprouting around the riverbed, and they fill the air with a heady aroma. Reeds sway gently in the slow stream. He can only look on in wonder as the figure points towards the lush areas around them, the soft glow of the sun illuminating the mossy clearing._

_As he gets older, the dream gets hazier. The lines start to blur a little too harshly, but he still wakes up feeling a sense of calm than no prayer has so far given him._

_The terrors come just as frequently._

_He’s often shaken awake by one of the monks before it can get too bad. When he was a child, he would wake up in the night crying and reaching for something that he couldn’t place. He would take him outside into the moonlight, holding him and swaying him gently until his sobs subsided. He would point out the stars if it was clear enough, distracting him with dizzying tales of the beyond. On these nights he only deals with a sense of dread and sweat-stained sheets, heavy breathing as if he has run across the entire beach without stopping. Brother Ciaran, who he thinks has always had a soft spot for him, comes to him on these nights with his gentle smile and calloused hands that hold his own trembling fingers and lead him outside into the cool night air. The freshness of the mildew lingering on the wind helps to empty his mind. Away from the prying and judging eyes of the others, his shame cannot be seen and so he feels free to let it loose._

_ “You turn and cry as if the devil himself is on your heels.” The elder had once said as he placed a damp cloth on his brow, wiping his tears from his cheeks. It took Diarmuid a long time to realise that it was not the cloth that calmed him, but the soothing presence of the man himself. _

_All these years later, on nights when Ciaran is too exhausted from his days of work and prayer and Diarmuid is told that he is well past the age of needing a guardian, he gets full glimpses at the Devil._

_There’s fire and cloying smoke that chokes his chest like a vice, but despite the inferno blazing around him he feels cold and numb. The screams are there, howls of the banshees come to claim him and they’re sometimes right next to him, so loud in the cacophony of noise. Sometimes they’re muted as if he’s hearing them through water. He feels so cold and his rabbit heart is pounding so fast he thinks he’s going to die right there, and he feels so scared and alone and he doesn’t know what’s happening but-_

_There’s always a hand in his. The feel of someone’s arms wrapped around him tightly, comforting in the void._

_He’ll always wake up with a heart beating so hard he's terrified that it’ll rip straight through his ribs. He often lurches his guts out into the chamber pot on the ground next to him. He’s not too proud to admit to the tears that blotch his face and the way his chest heaves when this happens._

_It’s on one of these nights where he wakes only to heave out his fear, instead of Ciaran it's the mute that finds him. _

_Diarmuid bites his lip to keep from making any noise as he curls in on himself, his quaking body facing away from the others. There are snores coming from each side of the large hall and the stones only help to echo them throughout the space. He can’t stop the flinch as one of the Brothers coughs in his sleep._

_A small pitiful whine escapes his throat that he quickly tries to hide, pressing his knuckles to his mouth and biting down to stop any other guilty noises that threaten to erupt from his chest. He can just about make out the sound of fabric moving from one of the beds behind him as someone shifts in their sleep. He waits for them to settle, teeth denting his skin painfully as he hears feet lightly drop to the ground._

_The treacherous tears stream down his face and he tenses up further as a large hand hesitantly rests on his shoulder. The man shushes him and keeps his touch feather-light, his attempt to comfort him only dragging another small sob from his chest. The silence emanating from the man is very telling. The humiliation of being caught in such a childish position burns his chest, his eyes, leads his thoughts down an even darker trail. He is supposed to be a man now, and instead he weeps like a pathetic babe. _

_The hand tangles gently in his messy hair, petting him as if Diarmuid was a spooked farm animal. He is obviously unused to being the source of comfort to anyone, and the young man feels a joyful crack in his desolate shell. _

_He tries his best to speak, tries to insist that he’ll be fine and it’s just the cold that makes him shiver, but his chest traps the words before they can escape. He can only sniff noisily, snot clagging in his throat. He feels the bed shifting and the wood creaking beneath the added weight as the mute sits down behind him. The hand travels around to rest on his forehead. The larger man huffs in frustration, apparently not finding what he wanted, before he goes back to stroking through the soft curls._

_The ridiculousness of the situation dawns on him and his lips quiver into a smile. He turns his head, trying to catch a glimpse of the older man’s face in the dark. He’s aware of what he must look like: a blotchy, red-eyed, dishevelled mess, and for once he’s glad of the mans silence for fear of what he might say._

_But there’s no need to worry. There never is. The man simply looks down at him with a furrow to his brow and the large hand glides down to cradle his cheek, his calloused thumb smoothing small circles into his skin. Diarmuid hiccoughs and tries to bite his lip to keep from breaking down into childish sobs again, but he’s surprised to feel that smile threatening to tear at his mouth. The mute’s face softens and a shaky, unsure smile reflects his own._

_He closes his eyes and feels himself drawing away from the night terror, soothed by the hand that moves once again into his hair to massage his scalp. It feels good, and he senses that the mysterious man hasn’t used his hands this way in a long time. Diarmuid is eternally grateful that he gets to be the one that changes that._

_He can’t remember when he drifts off under the comforting touches, but he awakes to the white light of a winters' day. Everyone else has already left their beds. His eyes are raw and itchy, and his nose feels irritated. However, the nervous energy that usually follows his troubled nights is gone. He’s surprised to feel only a sense of calm, a lightness to his thoughts. _

_He goes about his morning routine, cleansing his body of his nightly shame before heading out towards the sheep pen. He focuses on tending to the animals, only stopping when Ciaran calls him over for prayer and lunch. _

_He eats lunch with the mute, a habit they have shared since the days of his recovery. He sits a little closer than usual, explaining a chill in the air when the mute only quirks an incredulous brow at his boldness. If his cheeks blush when the taller man smiles at him knowingly as he passes him another piece of bread, it can be explained by the burn of the sun._

_The next morning as he prepares for the day, he finds a lump in the pockets of his robes. Puzzled, he pulls out what appears to be a small sheep, intricately carved from what looks to be driftwood. He quickly shoves it back in his pocket as he heads to morning rites, but his hand finds its way back to it throughout the day, stroking over the smoothness and picking at the small nicks and lumps of the wood._

_If his heart beats a little faster when the mute catches his eye…well._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! Here's a little something from Diarmuid's perspective. Sorry it's been a long time coming, I started a job and relocated to a new country just as Covid isolation came into play so it's been a wild and stressful time. Hopefully I'll be slightly more on top of this bad boy because it is my child and i still have so many chaptrs i need to edit but my god we'll get there haha
> 
> I realise I may have made a cheeky typo in the last chapter when it comes to timing, so: there is a definite time skip in the last chapter of a few months between the mute being able to work and him going through his PTSD episode. I'm going to go and change that very quickly, yikes!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even in his days before exile, the idea of soft or delicate was something that he’d denied and been denied in turn. Hands calloused first from the furnaces and then from the blade weren’t meant to be used for tenderness, and the few times he’d strayed from the path he’d only been met with scorn and shame at wanting something delicate.
> 
> But for this boy, his saviour, he would swallow the old aches and try. Pumice his palms until they bled if it would soften his touch.

He’d grown up in the South, with its blissfully warm summers and mild winters cushioning the memories of his childhood. In his adult life, the fires of the forge kept him warm enough when the rains came and the dew turned to ice in the mornings. When he was posted in the cruel heat of the East that seemed to drift on for eternity, the blazing pyres they would keep burning to destroy the bodies that never seemed to stop piling up, the only cold that he felt was that of the biting midnight hour in the desert.

He had soon forgotten the crisp tang of a morning frost on his tongue, or the crunch of snow beneath his feet. Morning birdsong echoing through the empty fields oh his home. The small joys that could be found even in the white blanket shrouding the ground. But even in the nostalgia of his youth he had never been wanting, cossetted by his family and close-knit village that made sure that no one went without.

As he settled into his chores in his new dwellings, his body mended and his mind tentatively beginning to relax into something that felt like peace, he had watched the holy men as they stocked up heavily on their harvests. They buried the grain and wheat for the winter in the hopes that it wouldn’t rot, stacked their logs in the stone shelter to save them from the same fate. The sheep were herded into their large pens, their wool starting to thicken just in time for the first cold snaps.

A few of the monks had volunteered to venture to the nearest town a few days walk from the isolated convent to trade their wool and milk before the cold snaps that they knew were lurking. Diarmuid had frowned when the Abba overlooked his own request to join the men on their journey, but he had held his tongue. He had been prepared for them to ask him for his strength on the long journey, but he was never approached. He wasn't ashamed when he didn't volunteer. 

That same evening, the young man had eaten quickly during their communal supper. He bid his leave to the others before pulling the mute with him towards the small chambers that he had been designated for their nightly lesson.

He had began building his own hut a small distance from the convent, but with the way the nights grew longer and the days cooler, he knew that it wouldn’t be ready until the following spring. He was indebted to the monks for many things, too many to tally, but he longed for the peace that came with solitude. Somewhere that he could let his guard down without the fear of offending or upsetting the weaker men around him with his outbursts.

The room that he had been given for the winter was barely big enough for one person to inhabit, and the older man would often find himself perched upon the too-small stool while the young novice sprawled on the bed with his nose buried in his scriptures. Those nights he would smile and nod at the boys’ chatter, his instructions, the wistful way he spoke of the world around him.

He knew that this would not be one of those nights. The boys' mood had taken on a sombre tang ever since his rebuttal from the Abba, his pride wounded at being so casually set aside.

The darker man found himself hunched over on the rickety seat, a small knife in one hand and a piece of wood fit snugly in the other. Diarmuid was sat ramrod straight, a tome open in his lap that he hadn’t touched since placing it there. His fingers twitched over the thick paper, his knees jerking with energy that his body didn’t know how to handle. He’d seen this before in men who were looking for a fight, in boys who weren’t ready for a war.

He stayed silent, the sound of his whittling scraping through the air between them.

It wasn’t long until the young man’s anger, tightly folded in his chest and slipping through his limbs, was let loose into the silence hanging between the two of them.

“They still treat me like a child!” he whispered harshly, flickers of candlelight accentuating the angry downturn of his face. “They look at me like I’m weak, a waif, some…some…halfwit!”

He threw the book angrily to the side, the heavy leather thumping on the stone floor. He stood and began pacing in the little space there was left in the chamber. His robes scraped along the floor and brushed up against the mute’s knees as he stomped back and forth, practically vibrating in his frustration.

“It’s not fair! I’ve survived nineteen summers and yet they still don’t see me as a man! It’s like they don’t trust that I can take care of myself, like I’m just a thing to be protected!” he hissed.

He halted and turned to face the mute for some kind of confirmation. The older man merely glanced up from his whittling, one thick brow raised. This only seemed to darken the young man’s face, expression morphing into something furious and despairing. His hands were curled tight fists that shook at his sides, and for a moment the mute thought that those fists would come swinging in his direction. The older man’s amusement quickly turned to concern at the shine he saw in the others’ eyes.

“You mock me!” Diarmuid half-yelled, hurt colouring his words. “I know this land; I know my own mind! I can look after myself!”

He rubbed at his eyes quickly with his palm, letting out a horrible laugh that sounded closer to a sob. His shoulders trembled under the heavy strain of his emotions.

“They keep me locked up like some…some wailing _babe_ that needs coddling! I’m _strong_, my bones don’t creak like the others! I don’t understand why they won’t let me prove that I’m…” he trailed in, huffing and rubbing his hands through his hair in frustration.

The older man had often caught glimpses at how deeply the boy’s river ran. How he struggled to contain his sharp tongue in front of the other monks, the box of trinkets that he squirrelled away from prying eyes. The gleam in his eyes as they ran across the beaches together, over the moors, his spirit free from the stone confines of his life. The native soul that yearned for the freedom of the mists, that the boy kept hidden behind his books and his manners and his sacrament.

He knew that it was just another sin to add to his endless list, but the pride he felt with every question and idea that was whispered only to him warmed his heart. The boy trusted him with his thoughts and his curiosity, and he was grateful for their gifts. Whether it was because of his silence or his presence, he couldn’t say, but he would take either for the chance to stay with him.

“It’s not fair…” he repeated, eyes fixed on the ground between them. “I thought that you of all would…”

He let the thought trail away between them, the unspoken words sharp in the silence. _Of all things, I thought you would believe in me. I thought you would understand. Care._

The mute stood so abruptly that Diarmuid flinched back, his shoulders drawing up defensively as his eyes remained fixed on the older man.

He discarded his whittling carelessly to the side, the pieces clanking on the small table next to him, and slowly raised his hands up towards the younger man’s face. He kept their gazes locked as he gently cradled the molten cheeks, stray tears winding their way down that he swiped them away without hesitation. His ears caught on the young man’s shaky exhale. The furrow on Diarmuid’s brow easing at his touch, shoulders loosening seemingly without his knowledge and oh, this wonderful boy. The warmth of his breath drifting over his roughened skin was a balm, and he greedily savoured each second they were touching.

He was unused to being a comfort. Always too strong, always too broad, the son of a blacksmith could be nothing but a heavy presence. People outside of his village had only seen him as a lumbering brute, a stone golem without a mind of his own.

Even in his days before exile, the idea of soft or delicate was something that he’d denied and been denied in turn. Hands calloused first from the furnaces and then from the blade weren’t meant to be used for tenderness, and the few times he’d strayed from the path he’d only been met with scorn and shame at wanting something_ delicate_.

But for this boy, his saviour, he would swallow the old aches and try. Pumice his palms until they bled if it would soften his touch. He knew when he awoke on the beach that any order given by this boy would be followed, even if it meant his doom. He would take it gladly to see the smile that pushed away his darkened thoughts.

He’d long since forgotten the meaning of terror, drilled and whipped away through his years of blood, but the thought of this strong soul doubting his own worth sucked the warmth out of his bones. The thought of him glassy-eyed, covered in gore and blood, screaming out in terror, _all alone_, was enough to send panic and dread rushing through his veins.

The boys’ eyes were reddened, puffy from tears that he no longer tried to hide. The mute tipped forward until their foreheads were resting together, and he once again stowed away the shaky sigh escaped him. Diarmuid’s hands came to rest on each of his wrists, his grip firm despite the way his body trembled. Mooring himself to the other man, as if he were afraid of being washed away by what he was feeling.

One of the mute’s hands left his face, and the monk let out a small worried sound at their separation, hand latching on to the other’s sleeve. His eyes had squeezed shut, but the older man kept watch as he placed his free hand firmly on Diarmuid’s sternum. The heavy thump of his heart, strong and fast in his chest, seemed to pulse into his own.

The words he couldn’t say bit at his tongue, wild dogs trying to tear free. If he could not speak, then at least he could show.

They stood like that, time drifting slowly around them, until the Diarmuid’s sniffles had long since stopped and his eyes had shed their last tears. He knew that they would have to part, but he wanted to linger in the soft space that they had created together, selfishly cling to the sensation of being so close to another after all this time. And he could feel it in the boy too, that same longing for touch that he has so often been denied by those around him: he’d seen the way he would light up at the gentle pat on the arm, at the times that Ciaran would ruffle his unruly locks, the way his face reddened as they worked the land side by side. He’d been surrounded by men who preached of the one consuming love all men must show, and who had starved him of these small kindnesses.

He didn't realise that he'd been starving too.

But even if he wanted to stay close, shielded away in his small slice of the convent, the outside had to find them eventually. The shuffling of steps outside the door spoke of the day coming to an end, the other brothers retiring to their dorms for their nightly routines. The boy pulled away gently, and the mute could’ve sworn that his cold air had already started leeching the heat from his hands.

Even though they no longer touched, they still stood close enough to share the same air. Diarmuid was looking at him, a soft yet shaky smile tugging at his lips, and he nodded once. The mute let out a sigh, shoulders dropping from where he’d unknowingly tensed up. His own lips twitched, a murky mirror of the boy, which only drew a laugh like birdsong from the younger man.

Diarmuid turned towards the door, footsteps light on the stone beneath them. He looked back only when he was halfway through the door, eyes sparkling with a hint of their usual spirit.

“Maybe if…” his voice broke, and he coughed awkwardly “…if you would teach me your skills, then the Abba might reconsider my wishes…”

The mute stared on, bewildered at the mystery before him. He did the only thing he could do whenever the boy asked something of him. He nodded.

Diarmuid’s smile grew and he nodded back.

“We start tomorrow then. Thank you for…” he paused again, his expression smoothing into something soft, “…well. Thank you.”

He wished him good night as he finally left, the door closing gently behind him. He’d forgotten the tome that he’d thrown angrily to the floor, and the mute leaned down to gingerly pick it up. He placed it on the table beside his own whittling. Seeing them side by side had warmth spreading through his chest, a feeling that he’d long thought scrubbed from his soul peeking out like a sapling reaching for the first hints of sun.

He thought it felt like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just a softie, alright? I like soft boys and soft feelings. I'm using my writing as an anti-stress method and so far it's working so hopefully I can keep it up! Hope y'all are doing well in confinement, stay safe!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ground was trembling beneath him as he stirred awake from his spot just outside of the monastery. He was confused for a moment, convinced that he was in the hellscape of Constantinople. His hands were already reaching for the sword he knew wouldn’t be there, before the screeching of horses jolted him back into reality.

The ground was trembling beneath him as he stirred awake from his spot just outside of the monastery. He was confused for a moment, convinced that he was in the hellscape of Constantinople. His hands were already reaching for the sword he knew wouldn’t be there, before the screeching of horses jolted him back into reality.

He sat up quickly, stumbling barefoot to the open entrance of the stables where he had thoughtlessly napped, just in time to see three riders dressed in native clothing gallop into the clearing. He was out of their line of sight from his vantage point and he watched them closely: one of the men was older than the rest, grey beard visible despite the distance between them, and in the light of day he saw the glint of steel reflecting from their hips that had his blood rushing in his ears. The were shouting in the foreign tongue that he was still so far from understanding despite Diarmuid’s best efforts, horses pacing restlessly in front of the convent’s sturdy walls.

He stood still as the Abba finally walked out of the stone building, Brother Ciaran and a few other monks already standing behind him with their staffs and tools gripped in their hands. He couldn’t see Diarmuid, and he could feel panic start to take hold in his heart. They had barely started their sparring but knew the boys temper and pride was enough to get him in trouble.

The oldest ride spoke harshly to the older monk as the other two shifted restlessly behind him, hands clenching around the hilt of their swords. The Abba stood fast and responded evenly, seemingly ignoring the threat and danger coiled in their gestures even as the leader stepped towards him menacingly.

The elder monk gestured for them to turn back the way that they came, and the riders laughed at him, but he noticed that they had started nudging their mounts to turn. Maybe it was a misunderstanding, a battle of wills and not fists. He was ready to let out the breath that had coiled tightly in his chest when he finally spotted Diarmuid. The boys unruly locks were unmistakable as the peered out from the convent’s doors, unable to curb his damned curious nature, and the laughing suddenly stopped.

The leader of the gang had focused in on the young monk, and pointing towards him and murmuring low. The Abba shook his head and his expression darkened, gesturing for them to leave again. Brother Ciaran glanced towards the boy and hissed something sharp and angry, but the mute could see the fear around his eyes.

The two other riders jumped down from their mounts and strode towards the monks but stopped a breath away from them, waiting for a signal from the leader.

The older rider shouted out again, gesturing wildly at the young man. The two men nodded and drew their swords, striding towards the monks pitifully armed with their farming tools. The mute didn't know why he couldn't stride over there and stop them but his feet were suddenly like tree trunks digging deep down into the earth, his chest heaving in fear and anger, the smell of the stables blanking out into something dangerously like sand.

They easily forced their way through the monks, even as they valiantly tried to push them back. They were mostly inexperienced to battle and pain, however, and amidst the shouts of consternations they were jostled away and pushed to the ground. Brother Ciaran tried his best to push the boy back towards the inside of the building, but even as the strongest among them his staff was no match for the blades that were raised threateningly towards him.

One of the men grabbed Diarmuid harshly by the arm and dragged him forward even as he kicked and struggled against his captor, crying out in fear and anger. It was the sound of his voice finally jolted his body into action, and before he could think about it he had grabbed the long stick that he usually used to carry his baskets, unlooping the rope handles.

Diarmuid's head swivelled around frantically as he was pulled before the leader. He struggled to get out of the other man’s grip that tightened on the front of his robes, and he had reverted to his own tongue in his panic. The leader, still saddled and looking down upon him seemed pleased by this and sheathed his sword, leaning down to grip the boys jaw in one hand. Diarmuid stilled his struggling but his body but tried to lean backwards out of the tight grasp as the leader observed him. The other monks were still crying out in anger at the scene as Brother Ciaran and Brother Rua tried to get towards the boy, only to be batted away by the threateningly sharp edges of the blades.

The leader was the first to notice the mute but only once he was almost within arms reach. He pushed Diarmuid away harshly, uncaring as the boy landed on the hard floor as he fumbled for his sword. The mute let out a roar and brought the end of the heavy staff down, narrowly missing the rider's head and only catching his shoulder. The man cried out slid off his horse, trying to stumble away as the broader man swung another blow to his chest, knocking him onto his back.

The other two riders turned away from the monks and leapt into action, yelling and running towards him with their swords high; he dodged one effortlessly, knocking him in the back and catching the other in the side. His body was not his own as he swung at them, kicked one in the chest, hissed as one of their blades caught the back of his hand.

He felt his muscles jumping in exhilaration as he bashed them both away, knocking them one at a time in the head and catching them in the chest, winding them and forcing them down to their knees. One of them leapt up and caught him in the side, grazing through his shirt but he only winced and bashed him away with his staff. He could feel his blood pumping and that manic insatiable red haze that he had thought he'd discarded in the harsh deserts descended once more. They were invading his dwelling and he had to protect it, had to teach them a lesson that there was no-one stronger on this side of the coast. These men were weak, weak in body and in mind and he was _strong_, so strong and powerful enough to protect what was _his_, and he would make sure they knew and took that knowledge to their pitiful graves.

There was blood on his face and his clothes as he threw his staff to the floor and punched one of them square in the jaw, watching him fall unconscious to the ground as the other cowered away and crawled towards where the other lay. The mute stalked forward, raising his staff once more and-

“_Diarmuid_!”

He looked around just in time to see the leader, recovered and holding his sword limply in one hand, push Diarmuid to his knees. He ground out something vicious and brought his blade close to the younger man’s neck threateningly, the cruel edge ghosting over the delicate skin.

The mute was panting with exertion and he could feel his muscles quivering through the excitement and exertion of the fight, his senses working overtime as the adrenaline poured through his veins. He took a step forward but halted sharply when the blade was jostled closer in warning, even as the leader focussed on the boy. Diarmuid inhaled sharply and looked up at him with a sneer on his lips, teeth stained pink, but there was undeniable fear in his eyes. He was brave, stupidly brave and the mute hated him for it even as his gut tightened at the sight. His boy tried to lean away from the blade, but it followed him.

The leader finally turned to face the mute and shouted at him, gesturing to his men. From the huddle of monks in the doorway the Abba's voice shouted back, and the leader laughed harshly. He spat a glob of bloody mucus in his direction.

“He ours!” the leader shouted in stilted common tongue, gesturing to Diarmuid. “We take.”

Ciaran exclaimed loudly, breaking free from the group. The leader turned towards him foolishly, and the mute took the opportunity to lunge his staff at him with a mighty cry. It hit him square in the chest, knocking him back and giving Diarmuid the chance to roll away and scramble towards his protector.

The mute pulled him up roughly and pushed him the boy behind him, his eyes trained on the furious leader as the older man staggered to his feet once more. The rider that hadn’t been bludgeoned as hard was pulling the other upwards clumsily as they stumbled towards their whinnying horses, shouting at their leader.

Diarmuid shouted at them from where he was halfway stood behind the broad man, his tone assertive and dripping with anger even as his voice quivered. The leader stepped forward in fury and the mute felt his body square up unthinkingly, his muscles bulging and flexing as his fists tightened at his sides. Even unarmed he was aware of how he looked, had seen men three times the size of the leader shiver at the sight of him.

The older man hesitated, taking in the mute and the novice staring daggers at him from behind him. He eyed the monks that watched them with careful eyes. Finally he smirked, spat again and muttered something before nodding and sheathing his sword. He got up onto his horse with some small effort, nodding towards where his men had managed to lumber onto theirs. He shouted out once more towards the monks, pointing at Diarmuid before the three cantered back the way that they came, dust billowing in their wake.

Long minutes passed after the vibrations of hooves thumping in the dirt could no longer be felt beneath their feet, there was silence. Nobody daring to move lest the spell be broken. The only sounds came from the mute as he panted with exertion even as he finally started to feel the chill of sweat seeping from his pores.

“Mute!” Ciaran called out, but he barely acknowledged him. The sound was muted as if coming from beneath the waves, and instead he turned to face the young man behind him. He hadn't realised that he had the boy's forearm held in a tight grip, but he couldn’t force his fingers to let go. Even though he knew that their enemies had fled, there was always a chance of an ambush, a raid, and he couldn’t let him go in case they needed to flee.

The boy looked wild, his curls sticking up in all directions. There was a hint of red swelling on his cheek where one of the men had gotten too carried away, a slim graze that was barely bleeding on the side of his neck from the leader's blade, and the mute's stomach clenched tightly as fury bubbled up. The novice's cheeks were flushed but his eyes were sharp, flitting over the older man's face with a furrowed brow. He was talking to him, he could see his flushed lips moving, but all he could hear was the whooshing of his own blood through his skull as he focused on the small cut on the side of his mouth. Diarmuid reached up towards his face and he flinched back automatically, gripping at the outstretched slender wrist reflexively. The young man winced, but he persisted. His lips kept moving and slowly he could start to make out sounds that weren't his own thundering pulse. 

“…me look at you, I don’t know if you’re injured but we need to clean you off. You need to let go, _chroi.”_ he whispered the last word to him, leaning his body closer. The mute’s eyes were fixed on that small tear in the side of his lip and he could feel the anger surging through him in waves. Someone laid their _hands_ on him, someone struck him and he hated that he didn’t tear the heathens hands off there and then, he didn’t even see it blinded as he was by the fight and he should have _protected_ him and…

“Shh… you need to calm yourself, I need to…” Diarmuid whispered, a soothing balm to his frayed nerves even as he trailed off. His gaze had slid down to the mute's side where a line of red had started to grow, the graze throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

Slowly, he let his grip on the young man lessen. His fingers pulled away almost painfully as though they didn’t want to part from him. The novice was smiling though, a small reassuring thing that lingered and shook even as he nodded towards him in praise. He glanced towards his hands and oh... his hands were speckled with dark drying blood, sleeves frayed and torn, and horror dawned on him. He looked back at Diarmuid fearfully, choking back bile.

The animal he thought that he had caged once again broken free. He had unleashed the devil that had plagued him for years and he had almost…

His breathing hitched tightly in his chest. He looked around at the other monks who hadn’t moved from their spot in the doorway but they were watching him guardedly, some in fear and some in shock. They had all seen the monster that he'd thought banished back towards the sands and the mud and the fires that he was rebirthed in and...

He couldn’t stay here. They had seen what he was capable of, the pain that he could inflict on any of them at any given time, on _Diarmuid_ and…

“Come with me.”

He looked back down at Diarmuid as the young man gripped his bloodied hand, leading him towards his own small dwelling further away from the holy house. He hadn't finished, had been waiting on Diarmuid's approval before laying the last stones in the archway and now his chest felt hollow. He followed him as if in a daze, his shoulders slumping as a bone-deep weariness washed over him. The monks were whispering amongst themselves even as they made to head back inside the convent, and he heard the Abba and Ciaran speak lowly between themselves.

He was led through the doorway and Diarmuid pushed him gently onto his pallet, fetching a basin of water and a rag from the corner of the room. The daylight was softened and low, bathing the young man in honey tones and he could feel his mind wandering, zoning in on that damned cut and swelling jaw...

“I’ll take you to the sea tomorrow” the novice broke through his internal ramblings as he ran the soaked rag over the older man’s heavy hands, now limp between them.

“You can be cleansed then but it’s too late in the day now, I’m sorry, this is the best that I can do…” he murmured, taking his time to run the cloth between each of his fingers, dipping it in the water to rinse out the residue and mindful of the thin graze. The mute nodded, lowering his head to watch the way that their hands touched and collided with each other.

He pushed up the mute’s sleeves to rub the damp cloth over his arms, wiping away the grime of his work-day and the spatters of blood that littered his skin like gruesome freckles. When he was finished he rinsed the rag once more, reaching for the man's face and stopping short as he flinched away once more. Diarmuid’s face crumpled briefly, but he nodded and left his arm outstretched as the mute calmed his suddenly ragged breathing. After a moment he reached forward again, gentler this time.

A ragged sigh came from his lips unbidden as he felt the first cool touch to his cheek, and he stared up into the young man’s eyes in awe.

Diarmuid had a small flush to his cheeks at the avid attention but he continued as if he hadn’t noticed, trying to mask his wince at the amount of blood that covered his face. He had to dip into the bowl three or four times before he seemed comfortable that most of it was gone, taking great care when he pressed the cloth over his eyes and around his parted mouth.

When he had finished he threw the ruined rag into the basin and stood before him. He let the hands that hadn’t trembled once during his work brush through the man’s dark curls, grown out from their jagged cut he had shown up on the shore in a lifetime ago. His fingers caught on knots and untangled them as he went, petting through as the mute leaned gratefully into his touch. Diarmuid hesitated briefly before leaning down and placing his lips featherlight to the man’s forehead. The older man inhaled sharply, trembling fingers coming to clutch at the ends of his heavy robes.

“Thank you…” he breathed into the damp skin, running his fingers comfortingly across his scalp as the man shook his head beneath his lips.

“Thank you, I’m so sorry, _mo chroi_…” he continued, voice suddenly thick and catching in his throat. The mute let go of his robes and placed them on either side of his face instead, shaking his head fervently as he pressed their foreheads together.

They stayed like that for some time, drinking in the feel of each other until they heard footsteps and the skirting of robes across courtyard. Diarmuid stepped away quickly, pressing one last chaste kiss on forehead even as his entire body caved in on itself, shoulders hunching and reaching for the basin just as Brother Ciaran stepped through the doorway.

“Diarmuid, leave us.” The older monk's voice rang out harshly in the chamber and the novice dropped the basin hard onto the floor. He turned to look at Ciaran, anger clouding his features, opening his mouth to speak just as Ciaran held up a hand.

“Later. You can tend to him later, do you understand? But for now we must speak alone.” The older monk interrupted. Diarmuid's shoulders straightened and he looked between the mute and the older monk, hesitating as if he was going to speak before nodding harshly and storming out of the hut.

The mute realised that he was trembling, his fingers clenching and unclenching beyond his control as they searched for something to hang onto. His eyes were fixed on the door that the novice had just left through, trying to focus on get his breath steady through the panic of what he knew was going to happen.

He would have to pack what little belongings he had, they would probably make him give back the clothes they had made him and where would that leave him them? Only the sullied rags that he was moored in, no good for the winter months that they were living through. He wished he'd at least gotten one last look at Diarmuid before he was cast aside, one last smile to remember his boy before he was finally thrown into the purgatory that he belonged to.

He looked down at his hands. They were clean but still felt tacky with lingering traces of blood. Was it his or Diarmuid's? He couldn't remember. He tightened his fists until the knuckles turned white, trying to quell the shaking that ran through them.

“Your actions were foolish,” Brother Ciaran stated lowly, and the mute nodded as he stared at the ground between them. “What you did could have hurt him, killed him. It was dangerous and uncalled for.”

The trembling in his hands had lessened, but his heavy heart knew the words to be true.

A hand landed on his shoulder and he flinched away in memory of violence, the expectation of heavy punishment that he deserved but that he would endure. He would endure it a thousand times over because despite the monk's words he would never choose a different path, knew it deep in his bones he would suffer horrors untold if it meant protecting the one dear to him.

“We owe you our gratitude.” The monk stated calmly.

The mute looked up at him sharply, confusion and disbelief marring his features. Ciaran was smiling softly, and the hand on his shoulder tightened briefly.

“Without your strength he would be leagues away from us by now, or worse.”

The scarred man clenched his eyes shut at the thought of what could’ve been. What may still be in the days and years to come. He looked at the older man again questioningly, gesturing to the door where Diarmuid had disappeared. The monk sighed and move to sit next to him, his knees popping from age and experience.

“You must know we monks don't sprout out of the ground. Diarmuid was brought to us as a child, barely old enough to walk. His mother came here seeking refuge, badly wounded, and we hoped that she would recover in time…” He trailed off, but the mute understood him clearly. “She begged us to hide him from the violence, and we have done as much as we could. But tensions remain high, rebellion is in the air and in people's hearts, and these people need as many young men as they can.” 

The older man looked at him once more, the first hints of anguish tugging at his features. “Blood is important to us. Leaders have a claim over those who share name, birth right…I fear that, should they come back, the boy will be taken to his father’s people and forced into the fight.”

The mute reached out and grabbed the monk’s forearm, shaking his head. Whoever tried to take him, man or god, would find their hands ripped off and thrown into the sea before he’d let anything touch him again.

The monk watched him for a moment, searching his gaze. He must have found what he was searching for as he nodded, patting the other man’s clenched hand.

“We have an understanding, then.” He said. He stood up and brushed the dust from his robes, walking over to the empty doorway. He turned back towards him briefly, contemplating his words for a second. “I think it wise that you stay close to Diarmuid for the foreseeable future. I am not too proud to admit that I find comfort knowing that he is safer by your side than he is by mine.”

The mute nodded, turning his eyes back to the floor. He heard hushed but heated voices in the monk’s native language. Footsteps approached him, and this time he didn’t flinch when a hand came to rest delicately at the back of his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't fucking know where I'm going with this (that's a lie, I already have like 15000 words of the sequel to this written and i haven't even finished this) but I'm starting to think it's starting to become more sequences. There seems to be a lot of timeskips. Sorry bois, it's 11pm and I've been editing this for like 2 hours haha


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even before their newfound companionship (and what a strange thought that was, after all these years of loneliness), the novice had the remarkable ability to linger beneath his skin. As his days are now filled with chatter and curiosity from the boy, he indulges in the quiet moments that they share together away from the stone buildings and curious eyes of the other Brothers.

“I don’t know how to swim.” Diarmuid remarked one day, unprompted.

They were both staring out towards the sea, legs outstretched and sat close enough that their elbows brushed together. Taking a well-deserved break from the morning’s arduous task of combing the windy beach for razor fish and errant seaweed, their hands aching and red from the saltwater. His side, nicely healed from their encounter with the locals, still aches and pulls whenever he pushes himself too far in his tasks, and he basks in the opportunity to rest.

During the few months that had passed since he became the boys’ protector, they’re more often than not sharing each other’s company during their daily tasks. Although he had at first tried to keep his distance, avert his wandering gaze from the young monk and retreat quickly to his rooms after their meals, Diarmuid had a habit of seeking him out. After having finally completed and moved into the newly built hut, far enough away from the convent that his nightly terrors would no longer wake them, the monk would join him almost every night after their evening meal to speak freely and enjoy his company. Their nightly lessons had evolved quickly into daily ones, the boy pointing at the heavy tools in the older man’s grip, the gulls that cawed and circled the skies above him, speaking his native tongue with a contagious joy. He found himself smiling more often, fleeting quirks of his lips that Diarmuid responded to gleefully.

Even before their newfound companionship (and what a strange thought that was, after all these years of loneliness), the novice had the remarkable ability to linger beneath his skin. As his days are now filled with chatter and curiosity from the boy, he indulges in the quiet moments that they share together away from the stone buildings and curious eyes of the other Brothers.

He knows what they must wonder, has seen the same unspoken questions in the eyes of braver men before them. It hits him that no matter the length of his tenure or the tasks that he is asked, he will forever remain an outsider to them. That despite their kindness, they think he is somehow a source of corruption to their flock.

A foreigner with no words and a body that spoke of endured cruelty. Hidden in the dark of his cold and silent room with a foul taste in his mouth, he thinks that they may be right.

But sat on the shoreline together, sharing the peace and the space around them, his dark thoughts are cast aside. The mute instead notices that when the sun breaks free from the seemingly perpetual grey clouds that have lingered over the winter months, the novice’s thick and wayward locks reflect its shine in their honey tones. He’d caught himself staring many times over the few seasons that he’d resided on this strange new land, a gentle warmth unfolding slowly in his chest. He had long ago realised that not even the cracking of whips or molten coals could burn away his nature, although many had tried. He had the scars and memories to prove it.

A beacon in the cold afternoon light, the mute’s eyes are drawn to where the young man’s sleeves are rolled up, pale arms on show as he picks at errant pieces of grass beneath them.

He likes seeing this side of him, when it is just the two of them roaming the landscape. Diarmuid’s tongue is a little looser away from his peers, freed from the confines of the chapel and the practices that the monks follow. He seems more at ease with himself, his questions and curiosity unleashed when not surrounded by disapproving or disappointed faces. He ponders the rivers and the insects, the very sky above him. He asks about men’s souls and what life is like outside the walls of the convent. He knows that he won’t get a verbal answer and at first the mute worried that he would grow bored with his silence, taking it as rudeness or disinterest, but Diarmuid takes it in his stride. The young man once told him that he was learning the mute’s language: reading the way his shoulders dipped, his sighs, the furrow to his brow. Small gestures that would go unnoticed by anyone else have been categorised and stored away, and that small ball of warmth in his chest had unfurled at the monk’s kind words.

He startles only slightly when the young man coughs, and his eyes draw from the smooth pale skin towards his face. He’s still squinting towards the horizon, small self-deprecating smile curving on his reddened lips.

“I think I did once,” he speaks into the air around them, “but it’s been so long since I’ve tried.”

The mute nods and his eyes follows the boys line of sight, focusing on the choppy waves as they roll towards the shore.

“Brother Ciaran used to bring me here when I was a child, but he wouldn’t let me go further than where the water touched my knees. He would say that the sea gets lonely sometimes, that she drags people out to keep her company.” He continues, hands fiddling with the ties of his robe.

When the older man turns back towards him, he sees that his face is has a light dusting of pink from their day spent under the sun. The tips of his ears where they poke out from under his untamed locks are red too, like the sweet berries they picked in the fall. He knows they’ll have to leave soon so that he won’t dry out completely.

“Did your…” he starts, biting his lip before finally catching his gaze. “Did someone teach _you_?”

Someone had. It had been a lifetime ago, when the idea of war had been between boys pretending to be knights. Their family wasn’t as big as others in the village, but unlike what he’d seen since he’d left that life behind, blood wasn’t what defined your worth or your place. It hadn’t been perfect, many hard winters and rainy summers ruining the harvests, but his community had been tight and secure enough to band together through the storms and the misery. His father was a man of few words, a blacksmith who slaved hard at the furnaces even during the soaring summer days, but it was clear even to the blind that his affection towards his family ran deeply. It was on the warm evenings that he would round him and his older brother into his strong arms, soot and sweat streaming down into his shirt, and declare that the waters would be sweeter than honey.

The rivers in the south were remarkable in their beauty, and theirs was no different: lush green clearings that held signs of the fauna that lived in the woodlands around them, wildflowers pouring out of the ground and hanging loosely from the tips of the drooping trees that lined the riverbanks. Lily pads that decorated the almost still waters, the silt of the bottom turning the waters a murky red colour from the clay when disturbed.

His brother (God…his _brother_) had been the one that he had clung to nervously as the elder waded them into the waters. There were families from the village that had shared the same idea, laughter and splashing echoing under the trees that surrounded them, the afternoon sunshine bathing his memories in yellow and golden tones. Some of the other children would draw too close, spooking him until he hid his face in his brothers’ neck, his dark hair as untamed as the young man who sat beside him. His arms and legs had latched onto him so tightly, so scared that he hadn’t been annoyed at his brother’s soft laughter at his antics.

But his brother never let him slip an inch, not until his feet could no longer feel the squished earth beneath them. His brother had been patient, laughing and guiding him as he got his bearings, his hold on him solid. He had always been solid, right up until the day he...

He felt his smile drop. He nodded once, looking down at the way his hands were playing with the sand beneath them.

“Would you…” the soft voice hesitated, and he glanced over to see him licking his cracked lips, nervously facing him with wide eyes. “Do you think that maybe…you’ll teach me one day?”

The sudden image of Diarmuid, naked and clinging to him as he waded into the ocean hit him like a punch to the gut. He was ashamed to admit to his yearning heart and wayward thoughts, even as he could feel is face flushing. He’d never considered that he couldn’t swim, living so close to the land’s edge, but the thought of how much trust the young man was placing upon him had his heart pounding harder than any fantasy.

He stared at the young man in wonder. After all this time spent together, he still couldn’t believe how much of himself he offers to a man who hadn’t even known him a year. A man who crashed upon his shores, wounded and mute, whose history he hadn’t known. Each time those wide, vulnerable eyes and that sweet smile turns his way, he is flummoxed by the retribution that he has stumbled upon.

Like any request Diarmuid makes of him, there’s nothing else he can do but agree. He nodded, and the younger man laughed gleefully, his grin threatening to split his face. It was still amazing how one smile from the novice could chase any dark cloud from his mind, his thoughts already turning from his past and lingering on their future.

The young man laid his back on the sand, both arms crossed under his head to cushion him from the ground, his eyes closing with a soft sigh that spoke of contentment.

“If you swim anything like how you plow, I’ll be swimming as freely as the _murdúch _within a week_!_” Diarmuid said, voice lilted with humour. The mute couldn’t stop the snort that escaped him at the comment, and the monk chuckled delightedly.

Before he could stop himself, he found his traitorous and roughened hand stroking through the messy honey toned hair, brushing away the errant curls from around his eyes. He worried for only a moment that his touch would be rebuffed, slapped away in horror at the fragile moment between them, but his fears were quickly cast aside.

The young man’s smile grew wider, his dimples crinkling beautifully as he turned his face up to catch the stray beams of sun that surrounded them both. One of his hands reached out from under his head and rested on the older man’s thigh without hesitation. He could feel the heat from his palm seep through his trousers, and his breath caught in his throat as he stared down at the sight beneath him.

His saviour, with a tongue like the fae and laughter that would make the angels jealous, stretched out with the ease that is born of comfort and familiarity. His cheeks kissed with freckles and licked red by the cold winds, his pink lips parted in that easy smile that he wore around him…

The boy’s features had relaxed as he stared up at him, curiosity lingering in his gaze. There was something in the air around them, a soft tension that had goose-bumps appearing on his arms. Diarmuid was looking up at him almost expectantly with eyes half-closed, as if he wasn’t sure what he was waiting for but knew that he wanted it to happen.

His body was leaning unconsciously into the young man’s gravity, closing the gap between them before he could think about it. His own hand smoothed down from the novice’s hair to gently cup the side of his jaw, thumb stroking across the sun-kissed skin of his cheek and dragging a soft gasp from those berry lips.

_God_, he was beautiful. He was _beautiful_, and the mute could feel his heart pounding as emotion swirled inside his chest and clouded his mind. How many times had he caught himself picturing this scene before him, leaning over his flushed form and pressing kisses to every inch of that pale skin? How many times had he caught his gaze lingering on the delicate skin on the inside of his wrist as he turned the pages of his tomes in the candlelight?

The hand on his thigh moved up, fabric bunching as Diarmuid reached out to run his fingers along the edge of his scratchy shirt. There was a question pulling at the edges of his lips, but he did not speak it. The mute leaned closer, eyes slipping shut as he did so that the all-consuming vision of the monk blurred at the edges. He could feel the puff of the others breaths on his cheek, the way his hand was now grabbing hold of his shirt and reeling him in closer, closer still until they were sharing the same air.

The sudden squawk of gull, too loud and too close resonated through the clearing and cut through the tension between them. They both turned towards where the sound had come from and sure enough, the gull was stood a hairs width away from their basket of razor fish, beady eyes flicking between the contents and where they were still entangled with each other. Diarmuid pushed him away, quickly getting to his feet as he shooed and shouted at the bird, but not before the terror had stolen one of their hard-earned trophies of the day.

The mute lay back onto the sand beneath him, running a shaking hand over his burning face as he listened to Diarmuid complain loudly at the fleeing scavenger. His heart was pounding in his chest, a mixture of awe and dread swirling in his guts. He had almost… they had almost…

He sighed under his breath, getting to his feet so quickly that his head throbbed briefly in dizziness. He looped the baskets back onto the staff that he used to carry them, hauling them onto his shoulders as he waited patiently for the young man to finish his grievances with the bird. The weight of the baskets pulled at the scars that littered his back uncomfortably and he had the sudden urge to escape back to his room at the convent, latch the door for the first time since his arrival and cleanse but he knew that would upset the boy. He couldn’t believe that he’d…

He ran a hand over his mouth just as Diarmuid turned back to him, face flushed and with a sheepish grin that spoke of his embarrassment. He wouldn’t meet his eyes, gaze focused on something over the mute’s shoulder or on the ground between them as he walked back towards the older man. He lifted his hand and for a moment the mute thought that he would rest it on his chest, lean into him and maybe press those pink lips to his own and-

He didn’t. He instead patted his arm briefly, awkwardly, before gesturing towards the path to the monastery. He nodded and adjusted the grip on the staff between his shoulders, cargo heavy as they set off in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one for y'all, sorry about that but work I have been really busy and the creative juices just ain't been flowing like they used to! Again, a soft little number between our boys and delving a little more into the mute's backstory, taking some of my own childhood in rural France for the picturesque summers because I picture him from the South and I don't know why haha
> 
> Briefly gonna touch on the fact that I've got like maybe a few more chapters in this baby but have only written segments/have a 6 day shift at work next week so might not be able to update for the next couple of weeks, sorry for the delay in advance!  
hope you enjoy! All feedback appreciated


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The weather had regained some of its golden hue, a welcome change to the grey mornings that had seemed eternal, and the land around them felt the first touches of life after the dismal winter they’d been through. The valleys and landscape were once more accessible with the promise of trade in the coming weeks, the fields almost ready to prepare for their next sowing.
> 
> The mute himself found that he couldn’t breath that sigh of relief that the others had. He couldn’t, not until the novice’s freckles once more appeared on his cheeks, not until his slender fingers would stop shaking in the evenings.

Winter seemed to have appeared all at once, the weather changing long before anyone had anticipated. They had harvested and foraged the land much as they did every year, but the looming dark clouds and bitter cold snaps brought with them the promise of a harsh season.

They had prepared and stowed away their harvests, sealed into the ground to ride out the climate and remain unspoiled during the barren period, but one of the wheat pits had come unsealed during the first of many thunderous storms. More than a quarter of their grain had been left to fester before anyone had noticed, leaving the Abba and Brother Cathal to re-think the way that they divided their rations. They had had the good fortune to have stocked up as much as possible on other goods, cured fish from the seas and dried meats from the villagers through the valley, but worry had formed in the monks’ hearts when hearing of this misfortune. Some had been with the convent long enough to have seen harsh winters aplenty and looked on it only as an inconvenience, whereas some shied away from the memories of gaunt faces and empty stomachs that ground out in hunger. An omen of things to come.

They carried on as per usual, seeking out their daily rituals and chores. A month into the cold snap saw everyone leaner than they had been the previous winter, curling closer towards the fires during their evening prayer and towards each other during their morning mass. Diarmuid could often be found sequestered away in the mute’s cabin in the morning and at night before bed, huddled up in the woollen blankets and sheepskin rugs that he had taught the broader man to craft during the autumn to try and stave away the cold that lingered in his bones. The mute himself, so used to blazing climates and temperate winters, had felt the effects of the cold in a way he had never done before. The first winter that he had spent with the monks had been harsh, that was true, but it seemed as if the frost had settled and was determined to stay.

Nothing could have prepared him for the cold snap in the depths of the season. The winters in his village had always been sharp and crisp, hurried things that would only last a couple of months before the spring made a welcome appearance. His father’s furnace and the baker’s stone oven had often become the hubs of the village, people gathering to stave away the bite in their fingers.

Here, there was no promise of furnace nor oven. The humidity of the earth left this new land stagnant and dense, heavy on the lungs and managing to slip the chill straight into his very being. He was grateful that he had the foresight to trade his whittling to a nearby farmer for a thick woven scarf. It had been one of his and Diarmuid’s first outings together, Diarmuid conversing easily with the older man, and though he still didn’t understand all of the words he had let himself be lulled with its cadence. The farmer, at first suspicious of the broad and silent man, had been tempted in once he’d seen the bag full of intricately carved animals, gesturing towards his young children and mother who was showing signs of a new life on the way. The small children that ran around their feet had laughed gleefully, hands filled with wooden animals, and Diarmuid wasn’t the only one leaving with a smile.

The only times that he didn’t feel the scarf’s soft presence around him are when he took his daily meditation alone in the woods, and when the young novice looked up at him from beneath soft lashes with shivering fingers and reddened cheeks while they scour the windy beaches. He found in those moments that he didn’t mind the ache of the cold, warmed by the sight of Diarmuid’s grateful smile and he winds the thick fabric around his pale neck.

When the novice would gingerly unwind and hand it back before he retreated to the convent in the evenings, his heat would linger behind in the wool. Most nights the mute would stay up late into the night, embers glowing dimly from his fire-pit, fingers gently stroking where the fabric would be pressed to his lips. 

He noticed as the nights grew longer, cold months drawing out as if the earth itself had forgotten what the sun could feel like, that the young monk’s cheeks lost some of the baby fat that had clung on in the warmer months. They’re not starving, even on rations their pangs of hunger are few and far between, but the sight of the sharpened edges on the younger had something twisting in his gut. He found himself longing fiercely for a break in the weather, a sign of the changing seasons.

Diarmuid’s enthusiasm of the season hadn’t diminished in the slightest, still tagging along on the darker man’s daily chores and pondering the world around him, but the mute sees how his lips grow chapped from the icy winds. There are dark circles under his eyes where there hadn’t been before, coughs that rattle his bones. Hands that can’t stop shaking.

On days that the air was crisp and the snows had finished landing, he would gather those slim fingers between his own and try to rub the life back into them. Diarmuid, bundled in his heavy robes and wrapped in his thick scarf, smiled his thanks and would let him continue in wondrous silence.

When the first signs of spring made their way back into the world, an almost palpable relief swept through their congregation. Each man’s spirits seemed to lift with each thawed stream, each patch of green bleeding away from the white that had littered the ground for so long. Birdsong sharp in the morning hours, beckoning the season.

The weather had regained some of its golden hue, a welcome change to the grey mornings that had seemed eternal, and the land around them felt the first touches of life after the dismal winter they’d been through. The valleys and landscape were once more accessible with the promise of trade in the coming weeks, the fields almost ready to prepare for their next sowing.

The mute himself found that he couldn’t breath that sigh of relief that the others had. He couldn’t, not until the novice’s freckles once more appeared on his cheeks, not until his slender fingers would stop shaking in the evenings. Those days were closing in, but he still made a point of handing over the rations that he could spare, things he’d hidden away on habit, frowning at the boys refusal.

He’d awoken one morning just as the others, the very beginnings of dawn seeping through his wooden shutters, snapping to full attention as his memories faded back into the past. He had taken the path into the woods, noticing the greenery and the soft scent of mildew clinging to the grass and clovers that littered the ground. Reaching his regular spot where he knew he would only be disturbed by the bleary-eyed fauna around him, he noted how removing his shirt came easier than it had in the cold months. His muscles no longer tensed at the sharp bite of the morning, fingers no longer shaking where they were outstretched on either side of his body.

He took the time to feel the pull of his scars, healed but never faded on his skin. The strain of his muscles as he let his mind wander, let the nightmares slip away as he focused in on the sounds of the forest around him.

When he had returned, the monks had already been roused from their own slumber and were starting their daily rituals. It was a normal and welcome sight, but what disturbed him were the glances that were shot in his direction, mouths turned down in frowns. Normally there would be the occasional nod in his direction, sometimes they were too busy to notice, but the new attention had his hackles rising.

He retreated to his hut, splashing his face with water from the basin, before stoking the lingering hearth and sitting down in anticipation of Diarmuid’s arrival, hands finding his whittling tools. He had at first been worried about holding a knife, no matter its size and bluntness, but he found that each time he created something it would push the deadly thoughts further and further into the background. He no longer feared what his body could do on instinct, even if he still sometimes flinched at the loud pops of the fire or the stomping of the horses.

Maybe in time he could unlearn his training, in this quiet spot and land and its quiet people.

He pulled out one of his newest creations, an unfinished fox nearly the size of his hand that he would hide away before the novice arrived. He carved small lines into the creatures’ paws, blowing at the dust and stray chippings. First one leg, then another, and he made it to the fourth before he realised the sun had risen far beyond the boy’s morning ritual. He peered out of the small window to catch a glimpse of him in the fields, around the sheep’s pen, and frowned when his search came up empty up empty.

Maybe he was talking with Ciaran. The mute’s blade dug deeper into the creature without meaning to, gouging at the things tail. Sometimes he became waylaid by his duties, his morning prayers and lessons taking longer due to his ceaseless questioning and endless curiosity.

He continued with the animal for another while, each stroke coming harder and harder as the sun crept higher in the sky. He inhaled sharply as the tip of the small blade nicked at his thumb, and he brought it to his mouth, iron seeping onto his tongue. He placed the blade and the fox on the small table next to him, not wanting to damage the poor animal further with his thoughtless ministrations.

He tongued over the cut, but when he pulled away he could see that it had already stopped bleeding. It itched in the way that smaller cuts do, irritating but not painful.

He rose from his cot, stoking once more at the embers. There was a sudden energy to him, a restlessness that had him mindlessly touching what few items he had as he paced the hut. When he could no longer stand it, he stepped back into the clearing, eyes once again searching for the young monk. He strode towards the sheep pen with a frown, plucking at the bales of hay with heavy hands as the animals’ bleated at him.

It’s fine. The young man wasn’t bound to him. It was his own selfish thoughts that let him believe that maybe Diarmuid had enjoyed their morning rituals as much as he. Of course the boy’s studies came first, they always would, and to think otherwise would be a dishonour to him. His mind was playing with him, the boy didn’t owe him _anything_.

His boots stomped heavily across the clearing as he grabbed the hoe, every intention poised towards preparing the hard land for the next harvest. He was almost out of the clearing before his ears caught up with his thoughts, picking out someone calling for him. Turning, he saw one of the older monks standing outside of the main convent, beckoning him with a wave of his hand.

His pace back towards the stone building was only slightly faster than usual, his hand gripping tightly at the hoe. When he arrived at the monk he caught a whiff of bile, saw the edges of one of his sleeves dampened. The monk himself kept his expression neutral but there was a curve of worry at his mouth.

“Has Diarmuid shown you the mountain springs, the streams that wind near the peaks?” The older man asked bluntly. The mute nodded, brow creasing in confusion as he looked towards the inside of the building. He caught sight of a few monks’ robes swishing about in the darkness, but nothing more.

The monk pulled something out of his unsullied sleeve, a small sprig with tiny black berries, small dried white flowers clinging to the stem. He passed it to the mute who clasped it gingerly, thumb brushing over the crinkled texture.

“Go to the streams, if we’re in luck the shrubs might be beginning to bloom on the shores. Pick as much of this flower as you can and bring it back to us. Do you know what water-mint looks like?”

He nodded, remembering his outings with the novice last autumn.

“You’ll find it in the waterways. Can you find your way there alone?”

He nodded once more, and the monk hurried back inside the building, shutting the doors behind him with a clang. He stood on the doorstep for a moment, trying to make sense of what just happened when he heard a loud retching from inside. It spurred him on, dropping the hoe carelessly where he stood as he sprinted towards the forest.

He was sweating under his heavy woollen tunic by the time he had made it back to the convent. The rocky terrain had been slippery and he had stumbled many times, legs and boots caked in thick mud, but he had persisted up the steep incline. His mind had whirled as he ascended through the hanging trees and past the thorny bushes, scenarios flitting in his thoughts as what he might return to. Pictures of Diarmuid hovering over another ailing monk, caring for him through his bout of sickness with Ciaran’s guidance. The roles would quickly reverse in his imagination, awful images of Diarmuid, glassy eyed and sickly thin, grasping at the space next to him _where he should be_. Wondering where he was, why he had abandoned him. Reeking of death and decay that he had long thought forgotten to his past. These thoughts spurred him on, driving him towards where he thought the streams to be.

Many times up the mountain he cursed the land for making the plants so elusive, prayed that he would stumble upon them quickly and return to the convent just as fast. His prayers weren’t answered, and he spent a couple of precious hours scanning the creeks, scanning the bushes, looking for any signs that the plants would finally be in bloom. His luck suddenly changed as he caught sight of a small shrub tucked away between two large ferns, his relief quickly turning to dread as he saw how few flowers had bloomed, a couple of handfuls at most. He ripped at the sprigs as gently as he could in his panic, placing them in a small leather pouch alongside a handful of mint leaves that he’d ripped from a nearby stream.

Even as his limbs and muscles protested his swift descent, his pulse pounded in his ears and pushed him on towards the clearing and to the hope of finding Diarmuid caring for one of his kin.

His feet trampled the dirt beneath them as he finally broke free of the forest, heart lifting as he caught sight of the familiar stone buildings and ambling monks. A few of the men spooked at the sight of him, wild-eyed and filthy as he raced towards the building. Another monk was already outside on the steps, hands wringing as he waited for him, flinching as he came to a sudden stop before him. He must have looked crazed, curls wild and sticking to his forehead, panting like a beast and covered in grime.

“Did you find it?” he asked. The mute fumbled with the pouch at is side, holding it towards the brother even as he tried to glance around and into the dimly lit building.

The brother nodded, surveying the contents of the pouch and stepping once more into the convent. The mute’s body followed on instinct, drawn into the cold hall and following the holy man’s trail towards the medical chamber. The walls around him felt oppressively dark, a heavy foreboding that he hadn’t seemed to shift from his arrival upon their shores. He had never been happier to finally have his own dwelling, lighter and new and lacking the airs and graces of the cruel men of his past.

As the monk strode into the room, the mute finally caught a glimpse of what had haunted his thoughts. Diarmuid, laid on his side on the small cot, shivering and gripping at the blankets around him. His hair was plastered to his skull, curls limp and damp, cheeks gaunt but flushed with fever as he retched loudly into a pail beside him. Ciaran was crouched behind him, stroking his back even as the young man moaned piteously, voice broken and cracked.

His body froze in the doorway, only able to stare at the sight before him. Diarmuid glanced around, eyes glazed over but still managing to land on his own. He mumbled something in his native tongue, slurred and botched as he weakly reached towards him. Ciaran’s head shot up in shock at the words, finally seeing the mute as he muttered something to the other monk. He stood up and shot towards the door, pushing through and pulling it shut behind him, blocking him from seeing his boy. He could still hear the whines and coughs through the heavy wooden door even as the older monk stood before him, a barrier a between them.

“He’s…” Ciaran broke off and he coughed once, straightening himself out and staring straight at the mute. “He’s been like this since last night. This winter has been harsh on us all, but with the rationing, the humidity and Diarmuid’s lungs…” he stopped once more, trailing off with a heavy sigh as he swiped a hand over his face. The sight of the normally strong man’s vulnerability had a ball of lead crashing deep into his gut.

He’d noticed how Diarmuid sometimes coughed and panted after exerting himself, had caught him practising his breathing with Ciaran’s help. He hadn’t known that it would be such a problem, had no idea that the boy’s own body would betray him so.

The fever, the bile, the wet coughs that were still emanating from behind that heavy door. He’d seen stronger men succumb to the sickness that came with the cold and the winter. He had flashes of his own youth, watching the older villagers disappearing as their graveyard expanded. Even in the East with its scorching climate he’d seen plagues wash through and decimate entire garrisons, entire cities.

A sound escaped him, low and wounded in his chest and his eyes flickered between the door and the elder. He couldn’t face it if that was to be the boys’ fate. He would curse the Gods and the damned and all in between if he had to be without him for even an instant.

Brother Ciaran placed a hand on his panting chest, crashing him back to reality as he focused in on the monk.

“The fever should pass soon thanks to the herbs you've found. He needs rest and fluids, but he should recover.” Here he placed the hand on the broad man’s shoulder, grasping it as one would an old friend. “I believe the worst is behind us. Be strong for him, brother.”

The mute nodded, taking a deep breath to steady himself. The monk let go and turned back to the door, barely open as he hesitated on the step.

“Continue on with your chores, I will call for you if there’s any change. Should the fever not break, we may need tinctures from the medicine woman in the valley.”

The door slipped shut in the wake of the other man. The mute stood there, alone in the dark looming hall as he listened to the muffled sounds of whining and hacking coughs. His legs shook from exertion, body trembling as he leaned back against the cold wall, sliding down to sit on the damp ground. He buried his face into the scarf still curled his neck, trying to remember what it felt like to breath.

He lost track of time as he sat beside the door. His throat was parched, stomach gnawing with hunger but he couldn’t force himself from his spot. The grime on his boots and clothing has dried to flaky crusts that he picked at thoughtlessly, mind centred on the sounds coming from the room behind him. The coughs had quickly died down, leaving him with indecipherable murmurings and the occasional scrape of robes along the floor, the wringing of a damp cloth in a basin.

The other monks came and went along the hallways, glancing warily and sometimes sympathetically in his direction as they took their nightly ablutions. At one point Brother Rua had appeared and sat beside him, placing a bowl of watered down stew between them that went untouched but much appreciated. He didn’t speak, but his presence was a small comfort to the turmoil inside of him.

He was soon called away for their evening prayer, leaving him once again cold and alone.

An hour must have passed before the door finally creaked open, bringing with it a dishevelled pair of monks. Ciaran looked down at him in surprise, eyes ringed black in fatigue as the other monk disappeared into the dormitory. The mute stood abruptly, legs stumbling slightly as numbness seeped into his muscles.

“I must… he’s finally at rest. The fever seems to have lessened, but he still needs to be watched closely. Keep him cool, there’s cloths and basins. If he wakes up, give him the tea that we’ve brewed that’s on the table. Fetch me if there’s any sign of change, I'll be back at first light.” He said, voice low and filled with exhaustion. The mute nodded, and Ciaran stepped aside, patting him on the shoulder as he too stumbled his way towards the dormitory.

The mute stepped inside, nose wrinkling at the cloying scent of sickness that permeated the air. He shut the door carefully, stepping gently towards where the young man lay on his back covered in blankets. The glow of the candlelight bathed the room in an orange hue that warmed him, had him squinting slightly as he sat down on the stool next to the bed.

Diarmuid’s eyes were closed, dark circles less prominent in the candle’s glow. His chest rose and fell slowly as if in a deep slumber, but there was a rasp to his every breath that tugged at the mute’s own chest.

He reached forward and brushed the curls from the boy’s forehead, tucking them gently behind his ear. His skin was still warm to the touch, clammy and glistening from sweat and the residual water from the wet cloths the monks had used. He shifted lightly in his sleep, frowning at images that the mute could never see, mumbling words that he still hadn’t been taught.

He let his hand drop towards the bed, fingers lingering over where Diarmuid’s own poked out from beneath the blanket. He felt the pulse that flowed through the young man’s body, strong despite his condition, and with every pound the mute felt his own body finally relax.

He didn’t know how he had fallen asleep from his vigil, but he shot awake at the sound of a hacking cough beneath him. His eyes landed on Diarmuid and was shocked to see him staring right back, eyes still glazed with fever but lacking the panic that he had seen before. He reached over for the mug of tea the others had brewed, cupping the back of his head gently as he lifted him towards its rim. Diarmuid took a few heavy gulps, some of it spilling from the corners of his mouth before the mute pulled back and settled it back on the table.

He swiped softly at the droplets that had fallen along the young man’s skin, keenly aware of the steady gaze on his own face. The boy took a couple of deep breaths, lungs rattling wetly in his chest, but he seemed calm.

The mute hesitated briefly before placing the back of his hand on Diarmuid’s forehead. He was pleased to feel that he was cooler than before, even though his cheeks seemed still flushed. The young man let out a moan at the touch, leaning into it as his eyes fluttered shut in relief even as the mute’s own breath hitched in his chest at the sound.

He let his hand drift over so that his palm was flat against the boy’s forehead, sweeping gently across the clammy skin until he was cupping his cheek. His calloused thumb brushed over his pink lips as if it had a mind of its own, and they parted lightly in a whimper. He could feel his own cheeks flushing in embarrassment at the sound and at how long he had been staring, eyes flicking back to where Diarmuid’s were once more boring into his own.

He was alarmed to see the young man's chin quivering, eyes shining brightly as his brow furrowed in despair.

“_I thought you’d left me_…” The monk whispered, voice thick and broken. The mute shook his head fervently, leaning closer. His unoccupied hand found the young man’s and squeezed it tightly, weaving their fingers together. “I saw you run from m-me, scared you away back to the ocean… I screamed for you and you didn’t….you _couldn’t_…” he trailed off miserably as the tears started to slip onto his cheeks and the mute caught them on his own lips, salt spiking his tongue.

He shook his head once more, laying his own cheek against Diarmuid’s and burying his nose in the limp locks. The boys breathing had grown ragged once more as he sobbed, his hand leaving the cocoon of the blankets to curl fiercely in the older man’s dirty shirt. They clutched at each other for a long time, until his breathing had settled and the sobs reducing to errant hiccoughs and sniffles. He had buried his face in the mute’s neck, protected and safe from the world around him.

The mute pulled back slowly until their faces were mere inches apart. The boy reeked of lingering sickness, heavy sweat and the sweetness of the medicine he had drank, but he didn’t care. He was alive, _alive_ and close to him, better than anything he could have imagined.

Diarmuid’s breath caught in his chest, eyes caught on the mute’s mouth as he licked his own lips thoughtlessly.

“Will you… Can I….” the monk whispered, and the mute had never denied him before.

He leaned forward, closing those few inches between them as he finally, _finally_, slotted their lips together.

It was feather-light, barely there pressure that lit up his whole body and had his pulse thundering in his chest. The boy let out a soft whimper at the lingering kiss, inhaling sharply through his nose as he let go of the mute’s shirt and weakly cupped his bearded cheek. The mute’s own hand covered those cold slender fingers, revelling in their closeness and the feel of the young man beneath him.

All this time. All his lonely nights and wayward thoughts, those moments he had thought unrequited, culminating in this one precious moment. He realised that he'd wanted this since he first opened his eyes on the foreign shore, sight caught on the angel above him. His heart swelled with joy, relief, burning love that spilled out from his chest in a small moan of his own. 

He pulled away briefly, both taking a shaky breath of much needed air as they gazed upon one another once more. Diarmuid was smiling, eyes wide in wonder and still shining with tears, and the mute could do nothing else but smile back and lean in for another kiss. He placed kiss after kiss on those once forbidden lips and basked in the feelings that were swirling through him, focusing solely on the precious quarry beneath him.

He only stopped once the boy’s chest started to tremble, his breathing too ragged even for his passion, and he cupped the back of his head once more to slip him some more of the brew.

When he was finished the boy rested back into the pillows beneath him, small contented smile still lingering at the corner of those sinfully red lips. The mute leaned over and placed a kiss to his forehead, his hand once more finding the other's and holding it close. Diarmuid’s eyes were slipping shut, but it seemed that he couldn’t turn his gaze from the older man.

“_Stay_…?” he breathed out, voice petering out in exhaustion and the mute nodded firmly. He pulled his stool closer to the boy’s bed and leaned down to rest their heads together on the pillow. The strain of the position pulled at his scars and sore muscles but he paid them no mind, listening instead to the soft breaths beneath him. He placed gentle kisses into the boys’ hair, stroking his cheek gently. He kept it up even as Diarmuid slipped into dreams, keeping a watchful eye on the boy as he slept.

_Forever_, he thought to himself as the candlelight dwindled. _As long as you’ll have me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MY BOYS, how I love them and how I love writing them
> 
> this one goes out to aztecwarfareandcrumping who wanted something slightly whumpy, thank you so much for the inspiration, I have tried my best and I hope you enjoy. Also, finally, how could I not let my boys have a little bit of joy after such a distraught day?


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He glanced once more towards the fields and his throat went dry as he spotted the very object of his musings.
> 
> The mute was stood over with the lambs, tiny things that Diarmuid adores with his whole heart. He had still been confined to his room the night that they’d been delivered, but Ciaran had told him the tale of how the mother’s cries had quieted as the mute had comforted her, petted her fleece and made sure the closed-off pen had enough hay to keep them warm and safe. He often wondered at the fortune that he’d had to be on the other side of those ministrations himself.
> 
> His heart ached in his chest as he stared at his protector, leaning on the fence as he cradled the lamb to his chest so delicately with an expression of absolute tranquillity, stroking gently under its chin. He thought he could see a smile under that beard, and he yearned for the end of his studies so that he could go and check for himself.

Diarmuid twirled the soft quill between his fingers, smoothed it between the webbing of his hands and marvelled at the ticklish sensation it left behind. It reminded him of the way the mute would lace their fingers together in their quiet times together. When they're alone, sat on the beach or squirrelled away in his warm hut, he would run the pads of his fingers over the lines of his palm and the back of is scarred knuckles.

The newfound intimacy between them leaves him giddy, fingers restless and mind wandering through the lessons and daily prayers that he sits through with the others. He tries to focus on his readings and what Brother Cathal is trying to impress upon them about divinity, but all he can focus on is the small window that overlooks the courtyard. He can make out the distant forms of the monks who choose to work the lands, especially now that the height of summer is upon them. There’s always a chill inside the convent, a blessing in the Summer and a dread in the Winter, but it only seems to enhance the midday sun’s rays when he eventually leaves the stone shelter.

He can’t begrudge the heat any more than he can begrudge the sun: during the gruesome sickness he’d gone through at the beginning of Spring, he didn’t think he’d ever be warm again. He’d felt feverish at times, but it was the bone-chilling shivers that he’d hated the most. His body would shake itself awake, bringing with it pain and a fresh wave of nausea and hacking coughs, and he gave thanks every day that he was no longer stuck in that endless cycle.

His lungs still felt tender in the mornings, ached sometimes when he ran across the beaches too fast, when he pressed his lips for too long against the dark foreigners own…

He squirmed in his chair, glancing around discreetly to see if any of the others had caught him daydreaming. So far they all had their gazes fixed on the tomes in front of them, caught up in silent reflection, and he breathed out an inaudible sigh of relief. He glanced once more towards the fields and his throat went dry as he spotted the very object of his musings.

The mute was stood over with the lambs, tiny things that Diarmuid adores with his whole heart. He had still been confined to his room the night that they’d been delivered, but Ciaran had told him the tale of how the mother’s cries had quieted as the mute had comforted her, petted her fleece and made sure the closed-off pen had enough hay to keep them warm and safe. He often wondered at the fortune that he’d had to be on the other side of those ministrations himself.

His heart ached in his chest as he stared at his protector, leaning on the fence as he cradled the lamb to his chest so delicately with an expression of absolute tranquillity, stroking gently under its chin. He thought he could see a smile under that beard, and he yearned for the end of his studies so that he could go and check for himself.

Since his convalescence they had spent even more time together, Diarmuid sometimes falling asleep in his hut at night after spending the evening talking or listening to the mute chip away at his wooden animals as he pretended to read his scripture. Every time he let his eyes droop, succumbing finally to his slumber, he would awaken the next morning in his own bed in the convent. The thought of the mute gathering him up into his arms so gently that he doesn’t even stir left his heart fluttering, affection spreading throughout his entire being. He was aware of the dishonesty of it, but sometimes he would pretend to fall asleep just so he could feel those calloused fingers run through his hair, brush over his cheek, gather him up to his chest as he clung to the taller man’s tunic. He knew that the mute had to be aware of his deception, but he made no motion to stop.

He jumped at the sound of the bell striking from the courtyard, chiming out their midday supper. He shut his tome, sliding it back onto the shelf and fleeing the room as calmly as he could without drawing suspicion. The moment he stepped out of the building the sun hit him like a slap, his robes immediately feeling twice as heavy and lumbering beneath the weight of the midday heat. He squinted over at the sheep pen and frowned when he saw the mute had disappeared.

“Diarmuid! Are you coming for supper?” he heard Ciaran call from across the clearing, startling him as he turned towards him and shook his head, calling back that _he wasn’t hungry with all this heat_. Ciaran nodded and waved him away as he made his way to lunch with the rest of the Brothers.

Diarmuid walked over to the pen, smiling at the sight of the small lambs huddling up to their mothers, bleating joyfully and suckling at the milk. He looked around and couldn’t see any trace of the darker man. He took towards the hut, his feet treading the ground with the ease born from repetition. The insects chirruped around him, clicking out their daily symphonies as he trod the well worn path.

He was so caught up in his own thoughts that he didn’t give his customary knock on the door, instead pushing it open and halting in the doorway at the sight before him.

The mute was bent over the basin, shirt hanging off the stool next to him. Water dripped from his face and through his hair as he rubbed the wet cloth over his neck, dipping it back into the water to repeat the process. He hadn’t seemed to have noticed him yet, eyes shut in pleasure as the cool water trickled over him.

Diarmuid’s eyes flitted between the satisfaction on the stronger man's face, the large muscles of his arms and shoulders that flexed each time he dragged the sopping cloth over them. Raised pale lines slashed over the expanse of his back and across his arms, scattered across his chest haphazardly. He’d treated some of those wounds a lifetime ago, back when the mute was gaunt and weak from his past and voyage across the seas. Since then, he had gained back his strength and bulk, his skin healthy and tanned from his days working in the sunny fields.

He had looked upon him before, at first curious to compare his own body to a man who seemed to be his opposite in all ways. He had glanced at him through the woods, across the beach, in the halls of the convent, across the hearth of his hut. But that had been before his own illness, before their kiss, before he had admitted to himself how desperately he wanted his feelings to be reciprocated.

As he looked upon him now his body felt even hotter than being in pure sunlight, his cheeks flushing and his heart starting to race. His mouth felt dry as he took in the sight, for once glad of the heavy robes he wore as he shifted uncomfortably.

The mute straightened up and jumped at the sight of him, hand reaching to his waist quickly and clutching at thin air. Droplets of water ran down his chest and through the thick, dark hair that Diarmuid hadn’t been able to grow. The drops trailed over his toned stomach, over the curly hairs that disappeared into the band of his woollen trousers.

Diarmuid flushed a deeper shade of scarlet, heat building in the tips of his ears as he dragged his eyes back up to see the mute’s amused expression. The taller man swiped the cloth slowly over his broad chest, one brow raised in a silent question.

Diarmuid cleared his suddenly very dry throat, eyes flitting around the room nervously so as not to linger on what lay beneath that waistband.

“I…apologies, I saw you with the erm… the lambs, and then you disappeared, so…” he trailed off as that cloth followed the trail of droplets, dipping over his abs and across his bellybutton.

“I was… going to ask you if maybe, because it’s too hot to work the land, if you’d… continue with my lessons today…” he finished, congratulating himself on his quick recovery.

The more he thought about it the more the idea appealed to him: wading into the ocean, his protector by his side, holding him up against the waves and teaching him to paddle against them. Or maybe the other lessons that he and Ciaran had spoken about, ones aimed to train his body to defend himself from any would-be attackers. He felt a thrill at the thought of using his finally healthy body for something other than studying scripture and tending to the land, memories stuck on the way the mute had taught him the basics of throwing a punch and landing a hit. They hadn’t had neither time nor climate to continue for months now, but he remembered that the mute had promised to teach him -_he didn’t need words to see a vow reflected in his eyes_\- and he intended to hold him to it.

Despite Diarmuid’s own excitement at the thought of spending the afternoon in the choppy seas or the shady forest together, the mute’s amused expression had disappeared. That small concerned furrow appeared between his brows as he threw the cloth haphazardly towards the basin, striding towards him and placing a hand on the younger’s sternum.

He was still shirtless, glistening even in the shade of his hut, palm aflame where it rested on top of his robes. For a moment he lost all sense of thought, eyes fixated on those full lips so close to his own, before he realised what was being asked. A streak of embarrassment and shame shot through him and he batted the hand away, arms crossing defensively against his chest.

“I’m _fine_!” he hissed, pouting. “I’ve been fine for weeks now, stronger than I’ve ever been with your constant _mothering_.”

And it was true; since the day that they had crossed that unspoken barrier between them, the mute had been an almost constant presence at his side, nursing him back to health and then some. He’d forced his extra rations on him, foraged and fished and provided him with plenty of options that had seen his recovery time halved. The only shame that came now was with the mute knowing about his rattling lungs: how sometimes he wouldn’t be able to catch his breath after their runs, how he would feel dizzy with a tight chest after a hard days’ work, how the springtime air and pollen had him choking. He couldn’t help but compare the two of them. The man before him was tall, strong, a survivor of unspoken cruelty and tragedy, a protector to his very core. He had seen him work, had seen him fight, and he believed that no man could stand as his equal. Being around him every day had only made him aware of his own faults and insecurities in the face of such strength.

The mute sighed loudly through his nose, rubbing his hand roughly through Diarmuid’s hair as he turned to pick up his tunic once more. The novice couldn’t help the small gasp as he caught sight of the large tattoo of the cross that was centred on his back, blue ink a stark contrast to his tanned skin and white lines that intersected it. He’d seen it before, but it never failed to set his teeth on edge. The knowledge of a long-lasting pain, endured cruelty that no man should ever suffer through left a pang of sadness in his chest.

Before he could stop himself he had crossed the few steps between them, hand pressing gently on the still exposed skin between the older man’s shoulder blades. The man tensed but made no move to stop him, holding still as the younger man’s fingers stroked over the large shape of the cross.

“I’ve always wondered… did you choose this?” he whispered. After a long moment the mute nodded, shoulders hunching forward to draw in on himself.

He was like polished stone beneath his hand, unyielding, and his heart ached at the sight. He wanted him soft, comfortable; wanted the man who smiled at baby animals, who traded his carvings to the children of the village, who held him close when his own dreams turned sour.

Diarmuid stepped forward, hands slipping around the man’s wide torso until his cheek rested in the centre of the blue cross, one hand on his stomach and the other resting on his heart. He could feel it pounding beneath his palm, strong and steady.

The mute let the shirt drop to the floor and covered the monks’ hands with his own larger ones. His body relaxed with every stroke of Diarmuid’s thumbs, and he couldn’t resist pressing his lips to the overheated skin. He felt the older man sigh, shifting and unravelling them as he turned to finally face him.

The novice barely had time to catch the man’s expression before those large hands were framing his face, head dipping to press their lips together gently. He couldn’t stop the small moan from escaping as the mute’s thumbs brushed over his sun-kissed cheeks, his own hands clutching at the man’s bare sides.

Despite what the other monks would continue to believe, he was privy to the happenings and natural way of the world. He’d seen travellers embrace before whenever they boarded at the convent for an evening on their way through, or villagers whenever he’d managed to slip into one of the small groups that traded across the valley. Long before the mute had arrived on their shores, he’d often found himself awake at night, fingertips stroking over his own lips as he tried to imagine what it might feel like to cross them with another’s.

Nothing could have prepared him for the need that came with every touch and every daydream of the man that stood cradling him. Since that first kiss months ago he’d found himself consumed by a new hunger at the mere thought of his protector: the way his large hands worked the land, the dark luscious beard that he longed to run his fingers through, the way his heavy gaze would linger over him. He couldn’t remember a time that he hadn’t been drawn to the man.

He ignited under the mute’s touch: the way his lips parted his own so slowly with a hint of tongue that had him whimpering, the way those big hands trailed down his back and pulled him closer until they were sharing body heat, the small rumbles of pleasure that he could feel emanating from his broad chest. His own hands circled around those broad shoulders as far as they could, fingers pressing into the warm skin beneath them.

Impure thoughts flickered through his mind; what would he look like, spread out under the shade of the trees as Diarmuid rocked against him? What would that beard feel like across his stomach, his shoulders, his _thighs_? Would he finally speak through his pleasure? His _voice_, his voice low and broken and moaning out his name as he pressed him against the grass with those strong arms…

The monk couldn’t keep back the loud moan that vibrated through him at the thought, and he felt the mute’s hands tighten briefly before the older man pulled away almost reluctantly. Their foreheads pressed together as they breathed raggedly, chests heaving.

He wanted more, he never wanted it to end; wanted the mute pressed against him forever, sharing the same air. He wanted and wanted and _wanted_…

The darker man pressed forward for another kiss, body swaying as though beyond his control before his hands unleashed the tight hold they’d had on his robes, stepping away. Diarmuid’s hands felt empty as the mute turned to pick up the shirt that he had dropped haphazardly to the floor.

His cheeks felt hot and his mind sluggish as he watched the muscles of his back ripple and stretch as he pulled the fabric over his head, once more concealing his scars and tattoo from view. Before he could worry what he’d done to have the man pull away, the mute had turned to him with a flushed face that mirrored his own. They stood apart for a moment, taking in each other’s dishevelled appearances as their breathing and hearts slowed to a normal pace.

The mute gestured towards the door, eyebrow raised.

Diarmuid’s smile was all teeth as he nodded, adjusting his robes as discreetly as he could as they left the hut and made their way towards the forest.

The mute stopped by the storehouse on their way to the path, picking up two water gourds for their journey. The day was still hot, sun beating down upon them until they had reached the shaded canopies of the trees. Diarmuid had drank almost half of his own before they stumbled upon the clearing where a river ran between the towering flora around them.

The taller man grabbed the leather pouch out of his hands, tugging the hood of his robes once before turning and placing the gourds near the stream. Diarmuid lifted the scapula from over his head as he had done in their previous lessons, leaving him clad in his basic robe. He instantly felt cooler, the heavy woollen weight lifted from his shoulders allowing him to finally breathe. His eyes closed and he took a moment to appreciate the surroundings, the sound of the dim trickling of the river and the insects buzzing around them filling him with a moment of serenity.

When he finally opened them, the mute was stood across from him, watching. His hands were clenching at his sides but there was a small smile at the corner of his mouth that had Diarmuid itching to cover with his own.

Instead, he settled into the fighting stance that the foreigner had taught him all those months ago. That dark brow quirked once more before he mirrored him, gesturing for him to proceed.

Without hesitation he rushed him, lunging forward to try and catch him off guard. The mute side-stepped easily, grabbing the hand closest to his chest and pushing him out the way. Diarmuid stumbled and huffed in frustration even as he felt the exhilaration flushing through him. He spun around, leg catching the back of the other’s knee to try and topple him over. Once more his actions were thwarted, the mute spinning with him and pushing away once more.

They carried on this way for a while, the monk managing to gain the upper hand more than the had expected. He was having _fun_, wrestling with the older man in ways that he had never done with the other monk’s or children that had passed through the convent when he was younger. He loved the thrill that came with catching him off guard, loved the laughter bubbling out of him as his body worked for him despite the slight tightening of his chest.

He was so distracted by his joy that he accidentally threw too much force behind a punch, clipping the edge of his strong jaw. The novice hissed as he felt the impact resonate through his knuckles and up through his arm, instantly taking a step back as the mute stumbled and cupped his chin.

Diarmuid shook his hand to try and get rid of the ache, glancing up at the mute with a frown and an apology ready on his lips but froze at the look in the darker man’s eyes. He was expecting annoyance, anger, pain, but was surprised as what he saw instead: he looked _impressed_, with a hint of something darker that the novice couldn’t place.

He barely had time to brace himself before the mute was lunging for him once more, hands tightening around his forearms as his legs were kicked out from beneath him. He cringed, bracing himself for the heavy impact of the solid floor but the mute cradled him as they landed together in the dirt. Diarmuid wasted no time in pushing him away, throwing him to the side and managing to straddle him briefly before he was bucked off once again.

They wrestled on the ground for a few moments, the novice revelling in the strength behind the hands that gripped him, the thick thighs that pushed against his own as they tussled on the ground. His laughter rang out through the small clearing as the mute finally pinned him down, thighs on either side of his knees as he straddled him. He still struggled to break free but the mute pushed his weight down onto him until he could only squirm fruitlessly against him. The younger man gasped beneath him the foreigner held both of his hands tightly above his head with one hand, the other resting on the grass beside them.

He could feel the way his body reacted to the man above him, fine tremors coursing through his body and shaking the very air in his lungs. Their hips were pressed tightly together, making him aware of the heavy bulge beneath his trousers as it pushed against his own. He could smell the heavy musk of him, the way his chest heaved with from their activities; he could see the sweat that had gathered on his brow and slid down his face, down his neck, his damp hair curling at the ends.

Diarmuid couldn’t move, could only let his eyes rove over the red tint to his face; the way his dark eyes glinted with the late afternoon sunlight, the way they darted between his eyes and his lips. He licked them instinctively and the mute inhaled sharply, gaze darkening above him.

“Is that how all your people fight?” Diarmuid whispered, the fine tremor in his voice betraying his nerves. The mute exhaled through his nose sharply as his lips quirked upwards, shifting his posture as if to finally release him. It put pressure on his own desire, and he couldn’t stop his hips from shifting up in search of the brief flash of pleasure that he’d felt.

He felt shameless, hyper aware of the position he was in, focus locked on the hunger he saw in the darker man’s expression. New sensations threatened to overwhelm him, his daydreams and fantasies paling in comparison to reality. The heavy line of the man’s desire twitched against his, his large hand coming to rest along his flaming cheek. His calloused thumb stroked over his lips sensually and he couldn’t stop his tongue from lapping briefly at it, tasting the salt on the other man’s skin.

He was about to speak, about to beg him for more, more, _please_, when the mute suddenly cocked his head to the side as if straining to hear. Diarmuid couldn’t stop the helpless whine that stuck in his throat and the mute’s hand gently clamped over his mouth to silence him.

The haze that covered his thoughts started to dissipate and sure enough his ears picked up something in the distance: the chiming of the convent’s bell, signalling their evening meal. At the memory of food his stomach let out a loud gurgle, reminding him that he hadn’t had lunch.

He blushed even harder at the amused expression that the mute wore, that large hand slipping off his mouth and shifting around to cup his jaw. He leaned down and pressed an agonisingly tender kiss to his lips, one that had his stomach swarming with butterflies and his chest aching. He didn’t let it linger, to Diarmuid’s dismay: the older man gently released his aching wrists and straightened up, rolling off to sprawl beside him, leaning back on his arms as he looked around the clearing.

Diarmuid slowly brought his hands down to lay over his chest, staring up at the darkening sky that peeked through the leaves above him. He took a shaky breath as he tried to reign in the carnal nature of his thoughts, knowing that they needed to head back in case Ciaran and the others should start to worry. The thought of the convent had reality crashing down around him, the gravity of the position he was in and the new sensations he had felt engulfing him. 

He looked over anxiously at the mute who was pointedly not looking in his direction, but before the panic could settle, he at last noticed the small smile that lingered over foreigner’s berry red lips. Like a blessing, his heart had lifted in the knowledge that whatever the future would bring, he wouldn't be facing it alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to give a big shout-out to the Discord for being absolutely fantastic and for inspiring me to push through and actually create something haha 
> 
> I'm sorry this took a while but I hope you all enjoy! This was more of like a slice-of-life piece from Diarmuid's POV, felt strange not going through the mute's mindset but definitely refreshing!
> 
> I'm going to be busy again this week but hopefully I'll find time to write the last chapter of this segment x


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